BTOY.  OF  CALIF.  LIBRARY.  LOS  ANGELES 


FACES  IN  THE  FIRE 


FACES  IN  THE  FIRE 

AND 

OTHER  FANCIES 


BY 

F.  W.  BOREHAM 

AUTHOR   OF 

'THE   OTHER  SIDE   OF  THE   HILL,'  'THE   SILVER   SHADOW,'  'MUSHROOMS  ON  THE 

MOOR,'    'THE    GOLDEN  MILESTONE,'    'MOUNTAINS  IN  THE 

MIST,'    'THE   LUGGAGE  OF  LIFE,' 

ETC.,    ETC. 


THE  ABINGDON  PRESS 
NEW  YORK  CINCINNATI 


CONTENTS 
PART  I 

CHAP.  PAGE 

I.  THE   BABY  AMONG  THE    BOMBSHELLS  .        *    .       13 

II.   STRAWBERRIES   AND   CREAM             .  .  .24 

III.  THE    CONQUEST   OP  THE   CRAGS      .  .        *    .      36 

IV.  LINOLEUM              ...            .  ,  .46 
V.  THE   EDITOR          .'.?.-.  .  -57 

VI.  THE    PEACEMAKER         .            .            .  .  *  .68 

VII.  NOTHING    .            .           .           .           .  .  "  .      79 

VIII.  THE   ANGEL  AND  THE   IRON   GATE        '  .  .89 
IX.   SHORT   CUTS          .            .            .«.-.-.       98 

PART  II 

I.  THE   POSTMAN     .            .            .           .  ,  .    113 

II.   CRYING   FOR  THE   MOON         .            .    i  .123 

III.  OUR   LOST   ROMANCES          -    .            .  .  -134 

IV.  A  FORBIDDEN   DISH      .           .            .  .  .144 
V.  AN   OLD  MAID'S  DIARY            .            .  »  .    153 

VI.   THE    RIVER            .                         .            .  .  .    163 

VII.   FACES   IN  THE   FIRE     .            .            .  .  .    172 

VIII.   THE   MENACE   OF  THE   SUNLIT  HILL  .  .184 

IX.  AMONG  THE   ICEBERGS           .  .  .    196 

7 


2125621 


8  Contents 

PART  III 

CHAP. 

I.  A  BOX  OF  TIN  SOLDIERS   .     .     .     .  207 

II.  LOVE,  MUSIC,  AND  SALAD  .     .     .     .  2l6 

HI.  THE  FELLING  OF  THE  TREE     .     .     .  227 

iv.  SPOIL! 237 

V.   A    PHILOSOPHY    OF   FANCY-WORK    .             .             .  247 

VI.   A   PAIR   OF   BOOTS          .  .  .  .256 

VII.   CHRISTMAS   BELLS          .....  265 


BY   WAY   OF  INTRODUCTION 

IT  was  a  chilling  experience,  that  first  glimpse  of 
New  Zealand  !  Hour  after  hour  the  great  ship  held 
on  her  way  up  the  Cook  Straits  amidst  scenery  that 
made  me  shudder  and  that  scowled  me  out  of  coun- 
tenance. Rugged,  massive,  inhospitable,  and  bare, 
how  sternly  those  wild  and  mountainous  landscapes 
contrasted  with  the  quiet  beauty  that  I  had  surveyed 
from  the  same  decks  as  the  ship  had  dropped  down 
Channel !  I  shaded  my  eyes  with  my  hands  and 
swept  the  strange  horizon  at  every  point,  but  no- 
where could  I  see  a  sign  of  habitation — no  man ; 
no  beast ;  no  sheltering  roof ;  no  winding  road ; 
no  welcoming  column  of  smoke  !  And  when,  in 
the  twilight  of  that  still  autumn  evening,  I  at  length 
descended  the  gangway,  and  set  foot  for  the  first 
time  on  the  land  of  my  adoption,  I  found  myself 
— twelve  thousand  miles  from  home — in  a  country 
in  which  not  a  soul  knew  me,  and  in  which  I  knew 
no  single  soul.  It  was  not  an  exhilarating  sensation. 
That  was  on  March  n,  1895 — twenty-one  years 
ago  to-night.  Those  one-and- twenty  years  have  been 
almost  evenly  divided  between  the  old  manse  at 
Mosgiel,  in  New  Zealand,  and  my  present  Tasmanian 

9 


io  Introduction 

home.  As  I  sit  here,  and  let  my  memory  play 
among  the  years,  I  smile  at  the  odd  way  in  vhich 
these  southern  lands  have  belied  that  first  austere 
impression.  In  my  fire  to-night  I  see  such  crowds 
of  faces — the  faces  of  those  with  whom  I  have 
laughed  and  cried,  and  camped  and  played,  and 
worked  and  worshipped  in  the  course  of  these  one- 
and-twenty  years.  There  are  fancy-faces,  too  ; 
the  folk  of  other  latitudes ;  the  faces  I  have  never 
seen ;  the  friends  my  pen  has  brought  me.  I  cannot 
write  to  all  to-night ;  so  I  set  aside  this  book  as 
a  memento  of  the  times  we  have  spent  together. 
If,  by  good  hap,  it  reaches  any  of  them,  let  them 
regard  it  as  a  shake  of  the  hand  for  the  sake  of 
auld  lang  syne.  And  if,  in  addition  to  cementing 
old  friendships,  it  creates  new  ones,  how  doubly 
happy  I  shall  be  1 

FRANK  W.  BOREHAM. 
HOBART,  TASMANIA, 


PART  I 


THE  BABY  AMONG  THE  BOMBSHELLS 

EVERYTHING  depends  on  keeping  up  the  supply 
of  bombshells.  It  will  be  a  sad  day  for  us  all  when 
there  are  no  more  bombs  to  burst,  no  more  shocks 
to  be  sustained,  no  more  sensations  to  be  experienced, 
no  more  thrills  to  be  enjoyed.  Fancy  being  con- 
demned to  reside  in  a  world  that  is  bankrupt  of 
astonishments,  a  world  that  no  longer  has  it  in  its 
power  to  startle  you,  a  world  that  has  nothing  up 
its  sleeve  !  It  would  be  like  occupying  a  seat  at  a 
conjuring  entertainment  at  which  the  conjurer  had 
exhausted  all  his  tricks,  but  did  not  like  to  tell  you 
so !  When  I  was  a  small  boy  I  used  to  be  mildly 
amused  by  the  antics  of  a  performing  bear  that 
occasionally  visited  our  locality.  A  sickly-looking 
foreigner  led  the  poor  brute  by  a  string.  Its  claws 
were  cut,  and  its  teeth  drawn.  By  dint  of  a  few 
kicks  and  cuffs  it  was  persuaded  to  dance  a  melan- 
choly kind  of  jig,  and  then  shamble  round  with  a 
basket  in  search  of  a  few  half-pence.  I  remember 
distinctly  that,  as  I  watched  the  unhappy  creature's 
dismal  performance,  I  tried  to  imagine  what  the 
animal  would  have  looked  like  had  no  cruel  captor 

13 


14 

removed  him  from  his  native  lair.  The  mental 
contrast  was  a  very  painful  one.  Yet  it  was  not 
half  so  painful  as  the  contrast  between  the  world 
as  it  is  and  a  world  that  had  run  out  of  bombshells. 
A  world  that  could  no  longer  surprise  us  would  be 
a  world  with  its  claws  cut  and  its  teeth  drawn. 
Half  the  fun  of  waking  up  hi  the  morning  is  the 
feeling  that  you  have  come  upon  a  day  that  is 
brand  new,  a  day  that  the  world  has  never  seen  before, 
a  day  that  is  certain  to  do  things  that  no  other  day 
has  ever  done.  Half  the  pleasure  of  welcoming 
a  new-born  baby  is  the  absolute  certainty  that  here 
you  have  a  packet  of  amazing  surprises.  An 
individuality  is  here ;  a  thing  that  never  was  before  ; 
you  cannot  argue  from  any  other  child  to  this  one  ; 
the  only  thing  that  you  can  predict  with  confidence 
about  this  child  is  that  it  will  do  things  that  were 
never  done,  or  never  done  in  the  same  way,  since 
this  old  world  of  ours  began.  Here  is  novelty, 
originality,  an  infinity  of  bewildering  possibility. 
Each  mother  thinks  that  there  never  was  a  baby  like 
her  baby ;  and  most  certainly  there  never  was. 
As  long  as  the  stock  of  days  keeps  up,  and  as  long 
as  the  supply  of  babies  does  not  peter  out,  there 
will  be  no  lack  of  bombshells.  I  visited  the  other 
day  the  rums  of  an  old  prison.  I  saw  among  other 
things  the  dark  cells  in  which,  in  the  bad  old  days, 
prisoners  languished  in  solitary  confinement.  Charles 


The  Baby  among  the  Bombshells          15 

Reade  and  other  writers  have  told  us  how,  in  those 
black  holes,  convicts  adopted  all  kinds  of  ingenious 
expedients  to  secure  themselves  against  losing  their 
reason  in  the  desolate  darkness.  They  tossed  buttons 
about  and  groped  after  them ;  they  tore  up  their 
clothes  and  counted  the  pieces  ;  they  did  a  thousand 
other  things,  and  went  mad  in  spite  of  all  their 
pains.  Now  what  is  this  horror  of  the  darkness  ? 
Let  us  analyse  it.  Wherein  does  it  differ  from 
blindness  ?  Why  did  insanity  overtake  these  solitary 
men?  The  horror  of  the  darkness  was  not  fear. 
A  child  dreads  the  dark  because  he  thinks  that 
wolves  and  hobgoblins  infest  it.  But  these  men 
had  no  such  terrors.  The  thing  that  unbalanced 
them  was  the  maddening  monotony  of  the  darkness. 
Nothing  happened.  In  the  light  something  happens 
every  second.  A  thousand  impressions  are  made 
upon  the  mind  in  the  course  of  every  minute.  Each 
sensation,  though  it  be  of  no  more  importance 
than  the  buzz  of  a  fly  at  the  window-pane,  the 
flutter  of  a  paper  to  the  floor,  or  the  sound  of  a 
footfall  on  the  street,  represents  a  surprise.  It  is 
a  mental  jolt.  It  transfers  the  attention  from  one 
object  to  an  entirely  different  one.  We  pass  in 
less  than  a  second  from  the  buzz  of  the  fly  to  the 
flutter  of  the  paper,  and  again  from  the  flutter  of 
the  paper  to  the  sound  of  the  footfall.  Any  man 
who  could  count  the  separate  objects  that  occupied 


16         The  Baby  among  the  Bombshells 

his  attention  in  the  course  of  a  single  moment 
would  be  astonished  at  their  variety  and  multi- 
plicity. But  in  the  dark  cell  there  are  no  sensa- 
tions. The  eye  cannot  see ;  the  ear  cannot  hear. 
Not  one  of  the  senses  is  appealed  to.  The  mind 
is  accustomed  to  flit  from  sensation  to  sensa- 
tion like  a  butterfly  flitting  from  flower  to  flower, 
but  infinitely  faster.  But  in  this  dark  cell  it  lan- 
guishes like  a  captive  butterfly  in  a  cardboard  box. 
If  you  hold  me  under  water  I  shall  die,  because  my 
lungs  can  no  longer  do  the  work  they  have  always 
been  accustomed  to  do.  In  the  dark  cell  the  mind 
finds  itself  in  the  same  predicament.  It  is  drowned 
in  inky  air.  The  mind  lives  on  sensations ;  but 
here  there  are  no  sensations.  And  if  the  world 
gets  shorn  of  its  surprise-power,  it  will  become  a 
maddening  place  to  live  in.  We  only  exist  by  being 
continually  startled.  We  are  kept  alive  by  the 
everlasting  bursting  of  bombshells. 

I  am  not  so  much  concerned,  however,  with  the 
ability  of  the  world  to  afford  us  a  continuous  series 
of  thrills  as  with  my  own  capacity  to  be  surprised. 
The  tendency  is  to  lose  the  power  of  astonishment. 
I  am  told  that,  in  battle,  the  moment  in  which  a 
man  finds  himself  for  the  first  time  under  fire  is  a 
truly  terrifying  experience.  But  after  awhile  the 
new-comer  settles  down  to  it,  and,  with  shells  bursting 
all  around  him,  he  goes  about  his  tasks  as  calmly 


The  Baby  among  the  Bombshells  17 

as  on  parade.  This  idiosyncrasy  of  ours  may  be 
a  very  fine  thing  under  such  circumstances,  but 
under  other  conditions  it  has  the  gravest  elements 
of  danger.  As  I  sit  here  writing,  a  baby  crawls 
upon  the  floor.  It  is  good  fun  watching  him.  He 
plays  with  the  paper  band  that  fell  from  a  packet 
of  envelopes.  He  puts  it  round  his  wrist  like  a 
bracelet.  He  tears  it,  and  lo,  the  bracelet  of  a 
moment  ago  is  a  long  ribbon  of  coloured  paper. 
He  is  astounded.  His  wide-open  eyes  are  a  picture. 
The  telephone  rings.  He  looks  up  with  approval. 
Anything  that  rings  or  rattles  is  very  much  to  his 
taste.  I  go  over  to  his  new-found  toy,  and  begin 
talking  to  it.  He  is  dumbfounded.  My  altercation 
with  the  telephone  completely  bewilders  him. 
Whilst  I  am  thus  occupied,  he  moves  towards  my 
vacant  chair.  He  tries  to  pull  himself  up  by  it, 
but  pulls  it  over  on  to  himself.  The  savagery  of 
the  thing  appals  him  ;  he  never  dreamed  of  an  attack 
from  such  a  source.  In  what  a  world  of  wonder  is 
he  living  !  Bombs  are  bursting  all  around  him  all 
day  long.  A  baby's  life  must  be  a  thrillingly 
sensational  affair. 

But  the  pity  of  it  is  that  he  will  grow  out  of  it. 
He  may  be  surrounded  with  the  most  amazing 
contrivances  on  every  hand,  but  the  wonder  of  it 
will  make  little  or  no  appeal  to  him.  He  will  be 
like  the  soldier  in  the  trenches  who  no  longer  notices 

B 


i8          The  Baby  among  the  Bombshells 

the  roar  and  crash  of  the  shells.  When  Livingstone 
set  out  for  England  in  1856,  he  determined  to  take 
with  him  Sekwebu,  the  leader  of  his  African  escort. 
But  when  the  party  reached  Mauritius,  the  poor 
African  was  so  bewildered  by  the  steamers  and 
other  marvels  of  civilization  that  he  went  mad, 
threw  himself  into  the  sea,  and  was  seen  no  more. 
I  only  wish  that  an  artist  had  sketched  the  scene 
upon  which  poor  Sekwebu  gazed  so  nervously  as 
he  stood  on  the  deck  of  the  Frolic  that  day  sixty 
years  ago.  I  suspect  that  the  '  marvels  of  civili- 
zation '  that  so  terrified  him  would  appear  to  us  to 
be  very  ramshackle  and  antiquated  affairs.  We 
lie  back  hi  our  sumptuous  motor-cars  and  yawn 
whilst  surrounded  on  every  hand  with  astonishments 
compared  with  which  the  things  that  Sekwebu 
saw  are  not  worthy  to  be  compared.  That  is  the 
tragic  feature, of  the  thing.  In  the  midst  of  marvels 
we  tend  to  become  blase".  It  is  not  that  we  are 
occupying  a  seat  at  a  conjuring  entertainment  at 
which  the  conjurer  has  exhausted  all  his  tricks,  and 
does  not  like  to  tell  you  so.  On  the  contrary,  it  is 
like  occupying  a  seat  at  a  conjuring  entertainment 
and  falling  fast  asleep  just  as  the  performer  is  getting 
to  his  most  baffling  and  masterly  achievements. 
I  like  to  watch  this  baby  of  mine  among  his  bomb- 
shells. The  least  thing  electrifies  him.  What  a 
sensational  world  this  would  be  if  I  could  only 


The  Baby  among  the  Bombshells          19 

contrive  to  retain  unspoiled  that  childish  capacity 
for  wonder ! 

I  shall  be  told  that  it  is  the  baby's  ignorance  that 
makes  him  so  susceptible  to  sensation.  It  is  nothing 
of  the  kind.  Ignorance  does  not  create  wonder ; 
it  destroys  it.  I  walked  along  a  track  through  the 
bush  one  day  in  company  with  two  men.  One  was 
a  naturalist ;  the  other  was  an  ignoramus.  Twenty 
times  at  least  the  naturalist  swooped  down  upon 
some  curious  grass,  some  novel  fern,  or  some  rare 
orchid.  The  walk  that  morning  was,  to  his  knowing 
eyes,  as  sensational  as  a  hair-raising  film  at  a  cine- 
matograph. But  to  my  other  companion  it  was 
absolutely  uneventful,  and  the  only  thing  at  which 
he  wondered  was  the  enthusiasm  of  our  common 
friend.  When  Alfred  Russel  Wallace  was  gathering 
in  South  America  his  historic  collection  of  botanical 
and  zoological  specimens,  the  natives  of  the  Amazon 
Valley  thought  him  mad.  He  paid  them  handsomely 
to  catch  creatures  for  which  they  could  discover  no 
use  at  all.  To  him  the  great  forests  of  Bolivia  and 
Brazil  were  alive  with  sensation.  They  fascinated 
and  enthralled  him.  But  the  black  men  could  not 
understand  it.  They  saw  no  reason  for  his  rapture. 
Yet  his  wonder  was  not  the  outcome  of  ignorance ; 
it  was  the  outcome  of  knowledge.  Depend  upon 
it,  the  more  I  learn,  the  more  sensational  the  world 
will  become.  If  I  can  only  become  wise  enough  I 


may  recapture  the  glorious  amazements  of  the  baby 
among  his  bombshells. 

Now  let  me  come  to  a  very  practical  application. 
Half  the  art  of  life  lies  in  possessing  effective  explo- 
sives and  in  knowing  how  to  use  them.  In  the 
best  of  his  books,  Jack  London  tells  us  that  the 
secret  of  White  Fang's  success  in  fighting  other  dogs 
was  his  power  of  surprise.  '  When  dogs  fight  there 
are  usually  preliminaries — snarlings  and  bristlings, 
and  stiff-legged  struttings.  But  White  Fang  omitted 
these.  He  gave  no  warning  of  his  intention.  He 
rushed  in  and  snapped  and  slashed  on  the  instant, 
without  notice,  before  his  foe  could  prepare  to 
meet  him.  Thus  he  exhibited  the  value  of  surprise. 
A  dog  taken  off  its  guard,  its  shoulder  slashed  open, 
or  its  ear  ripped  in  ribbons  before  it  knew  what  was 
happening,  was  a  dog  half  whipped/  Here  is  the 
strategy  of  surprise  in  the  wild.  Has  it  nothing 
to  teach  me  ?  I  think  it  has.  I  remember  going 
for  a  walk  one  evening  in  New  Zealand,  many  years 
ago,  with  a  minister  whose  name  was  at  one  time 
famous  throughout  the  world.  I  was  just  beginning 
then,  and  was  hungry  for  ideas.  I  shall  never 
forget  that,  towards  the  close  of  our  conversation, 
my  companion  stopped,  looked  me  full  in  the  face, 
and  exclaimed  with  tremendous  emphasis,  '  Keep 
up  your  surprise-power,  my  dear  fellow ;  the  pulpit 
must  never,  never  lose  its  power  of  startling  people  1  • 


The  Baby  among  the  Bombshells          21 

I  have  very  often  since  recalled  that  memorable 
walk ;  and  the  farther  I  leave  the  episode  across  the 
years  behind  me  the  more  the  truth  of  that  fine 
saying  gains  upon  my  heart. 

Let  me  suggest  a  really  great  question.  Is  it 
enough  for  a  preacher  to  preach  the  truth?  In 
a  place  where  I  was  quite  unknown,  I  turned  into 
a  church  one  day  and  enjoyed  the  rare  luxury  of 
hearing  another  man  preach.  But,  much  as  I 
appreciated  the  experience,  I  found,  when  I  came 
out,  that  the  preacher  had  started  a  rather  curious 
line  of  thought.  He  was  a  very  gracious  man ; 
it  was  a  genuine  pleasure  to  have  seen  and  heard 
him.  And  yet  there  seemed  to  be  a  something 
lacking.  The  sermon  was  absolutely  without  sur- 
prise. Every  sentence  was  splendidly  true,  and 
yet  not  a  single  sentence  startled  me.  There  was 
no  sting  in  it.  I  seemed  to  have  heard  it  all  over 
and  over  and  over  again ;  I  could  even  see  what 
was  coming.  Surely  it  is  the  preacher's  duty  to 
give  the  truth  such  a  setting,  and  present  it  in  such 
a  way,  that  the  oldest  truths  will  appeal'  newer  than 
the  latest  sensations.  He  must  arouse  me  from 
my  torpor  ;  he  must  compel  me  to  open  my  eyes  and 
pull  myself  together ;  he  must  make  me  sit  up  and 
think.  '  Keep  up  your  surprise-power,  my  dear 
fellow,'  said  my  companion  that  evening  in  the 
bush,  speaking  out  of  his  long  and  rich  experience. 


22          The  Baby  among  the  Bombshells 

The  pulpit,'  he  said,  '  must  never,  never  lose  its 
power  of  startling  people ! '  The  preacher,  that  is 
to  say,  must  keep  up  his  stock  of  explosives.  The 
Bishop  of  London  declared  the  other  day  that  the 
Church  is  suffering  from  too  much  '  dearly  beloved 
brethren.'  She  would  be  better  judiciously  to  mix 
it  with  a  few  bombshells. 

And  yet,  after  all,  I  suppose  it  was  largely  my 
own  fault  that  the  sermon  of  which  I  have  spoken 
seemed  to  me  to  be  so  ineffective.  There  are 
tremendous  astonishments  in  the  Christian  evangel 
which,  however  baldly  stated,  should  fire  my  sluggish 
soul  with  wonder,  and  fill  it  with  amazement. 
The  fact  that  I  listened  so  blandly  shows  that  I 
have  become  blas6.  I  am  like  the  soldier  hi  the 
trenches  who  no  longer  notices  the  bursting  shells 
about  him.  I  am  like  the  auditor  who  occupies  a 
seat  at  the  conjuring  entertainment,  but  has  fallen 
asleep  just  as  the  thing  is  getting  sensational. 

In  one  of  his  latest  books,  Harold  Begbie  gives 
us  a  fine  picture  of  John  Wyclif  reading  from  his 
own  translation  of  the  Bible  to  those  who  had  never 
before  listened  to  those  stately  and  wonderful 
cadences.  The  hearers  look  at  each  other  with 
wide-open  eyes,  and  are  almost  incredulous  in  their 
astonishment.  Every  sentence  is  a  sensation. 
They  can  scarcely  believe  their  ears.  They  are  like 
tha  baby  on  the  floor.  The  simplicities  startle  them. 


The  Baby  among  the  Bombshells  23 

If  only  I  can  renew  the  romance  of  my  childhood, 
and  recapture  that  early  sense  of  wonder,  the  world 
will  suddenly  become  as  marvellous  as  the  prince's 
palace  in  the  fairy  stories,  and  the  ministry  of  the 
Church  will  become  life's  most  sensational  sensation. 


II 

STRAWBERRIES  AND  CREAM 

STRAWBERRIES  are  delicious,  as  every  one  knows. 
'  It  may  be/  says  Dr.  Boteler,  a  quaint  old  English 
writer,  '  it  may  be  that  God  could  make  a  better 
berry  than  a  strawberry,  but  most  certainly  He 
never  did.'  Yes,  strawberries  are  delicious ;  but 
I  am  not  going  to  write  about  strawberries.  Cream 
is  also  very  nice,  very  nice  indeed ;  but  nothing 
shall  induce  me  to  write  about  cream.  I  have 
promised  myself  a  chapter,  neither  on  strawberries 
nor  on  cream,  but  on  strawberries  and  cream.  The 
distinction,  as  I  shall  endeavour  to  show,  is  a  vitally 
important  one.  Now  the  theme  was  suggested  on 
this  wise.  I  was  walking  through  the  city  this 
afternoon,  when  I  met  a  gentleman  from  whom, 
only  this  morning,  I  received  an  important  letter. 
We  shook  hands,  and  were  just  plunging  into 
the  subject-matter  of  his  letter  when  a  tall 
policeman  reminded  us  of  the  illegality  of  loitering 
on  the  pavement.  Yet  it  was  too  hot  to  walk 
about. 

f  Come  in  here/  my  companion  suggested,  pointing 
24 


Strawberries  and  Cream  25 

to  a  cate  near  by,  '  and  have  a  cup  of  afternoon 
tea.' 

'  No,  thank  you,'  I  replied,  '  I  had  a  cup  not  long 
ago.' 

'  Well,  strawberries  and  cream,  then  ?  ' 

The  temptation  was  too  strong  for  me ;  he  had 
touched  a  vulnerable  point ;  and  I  succumbed. 
The  afternoon  was  very  oppressive ;  the  restaurant 
looked  invitingly  cool ;  a  quiet  corner  among  the 
ferns  seemed  to  beckon  us ;  and  the  strawberries 
and  cream,  daintily  served,  soon  completed  our 
felicity. 

Strawberries  and  cream  !  It  is  an  odd  conjunction 
when  you  come  to  think  of  it.  The  gardener  goes 
off  to  his  well-kept  beds  and  brings  back  a  big  basket, 
lined  with  cabbage  leaves,  and  filled  to  the  brim 
with  fine  fresh  strawberries.  The  maid  slips  off 
to  the  dairy  and  returns  with  a  jug  of  rich  and 
foamy  cream.  To  what  different  realms  they  belong  ! 
The  gardener  lives,  moves,  and  has  his  being  in 
one  world ;  the  milkmaid  spends  her  life  in  quite 
another.  The  cream  belongs  to  the  animal  kingdom ; 
the  strawberries  to  the  vegetable  kingdom.  But 
here,  on  these  pretty  little  plates  in  the  fern-grot 
are  the  gardener's  world  and  the  milkmaid's  world 
beautifully  blended.  Here,  on  the  table  before  us, 
are  the  animal  and  the  vegetable  kingdom  perfectly 
supplementing  and  completing  each  other.  It  is 


26  Strawberries  and  Cream 

another  phase  of  the  wonder  which  suggested  the 
nursery  rhyme  : 

Flour  of  England,  fruit  of  Spain, 
Met  together  in  a  shower  of  rain. 

Empires  confront  each  other  within  the  compass 
of  a  plum-pudding ;  continents  salute  each  other 
in  a  tea-cup ;  the  great  subdivisions  of  the  universe 
greet  each  other  in  a  plate  of  strawberries  and 
cream.  What  ententes,  and  rapprochements,  and 
international  conferences  take  place  every  day 
among  the  plates  and  dishes  that  adorn  our 
tables ! 

It  is  a  thousand  pities  that  we  have  no  authentic 
record  of  the  discoverer  of  strawberries  and  cream. 
For  ages  the  world  enjoyed  its  strawberries,  and  for 
ages  the  world  enjoyed  its  cream.  But  strawberries 
and  cream  was  an  unheard-of  mixture.  Then 
there  dawned  one  of  the  great  days  of  this  planet's 
little  story,  a  day  that  ought  to  have  been  carefully 
recorded  and  annually  commemorated.  History, 
as  it  is  written,  betrays  a  sad  lack  of  perspective. 
It  has  no  true  sense  of  proportion.  There  came  a 
fateful  day  on  which  some  audacious  dietetic  adven- 
turer took  the  cream  that  had  been  brought  from 
his  dairy,  poured  it  on  the  strawberries  that  had 
been  plucked  from  his  garden,  and  discovered  with 
delight  that  the  whole  was  greater  than  the  sum 


Strawberries  and  Cream  27 

of  all  its  parts.  Yet  of  that  memorable  day  the 
historian  takes  no  notice.  With  the  amours  of 
kings,  the  intrigues  of  courts,  and  the  squabbles 
of  statesmen  he  has  filled  countless  pages ;  yet  only 
in  very  rare  instances  have  these  things  contributed 
to  the  sum  of  human  happiness  anything  comparable 
to  the  pleasures  afforded  by  strawberries  and  cream. 
We  have  never  done  justice  to  the  intellectual 
prowess  of  the  men  who  first  tried  some  of  the 
mixtures  that  are  to  us  a  matter  of  course.  Salt 
and  potatoes,  for  example.  I  heard  the  other  day 
of  a  little  girl  who  defined  salt  as  '  that  which  makes 
potatoes  very  nasty  if  you  have  none  of  it  with  them.' 
It  is  not  a  bad  definition.  But,  surely,  something 
is  due  to  the  memory  of  the  man  who  discovered 
that  the  insipidity  might  be  removed,  and  the  potato 
be  made  a  staple  article  of  diet,  by  the  simple  addition 
of  a  pinch  of  salt !  Then,  too,  there  are  the  men 
who  found  out  that  horseradish  is  the  thing  to  eat 
with  roast  beef ;  that  apple  sauce  lends  an  added 
charm  to  a  joint  of  pork ;  that  red  currant  jelly 
enhances  the  flavour  of  jugged  hare ;  that  mint 
sauce  blends  beautifully  with  lamb ;  that  boiled 
mutton  is  all  the  better  for  caper  sauce ;  and  that 
butter  is  the  natural  corollary  of  bread.  '  The  man 
of  superior  intellect,'  says  Tennyson,  in  vindication 
of  his  weakness  for  boiled  beef  and  new  potatoes, 
'  knows  what  is  good  to  eat.'  And  George  Gissing 


28  Strawberries  and  Cream 

in  a  reference  to  these  selfsame  new  potatoes,  adds 
a  corroborative  word.  'Our  cook,'  he  says,  'when 
dressing  these  new  potatoes,  puts  into  the  saucepan 
a  sprig  of  mint.  This  is  genius.  Not  otherwise 
could  the  flavour  of  the  vegetable  be  so  perfectly, 
yet  so  delicately,  emphasized.  The  mint  is  there,  and 
we  know  it ;  yet  our  palate  knows  only  the  young 
potato.'  There  have  been  thousands  of  statues 
erected  to  the  memory  of  men  who  have  done  far 
less  to  promote  the  happiness  of  mankind  than  did 
any  of  these.  Every  great  invention  is  preceded 
by  thousands  and  thousands  of  fruitless  attempts. 
Think  of  the  nauseous  conglomerations  that  must 
have  been  tried  and  tasted,  not  without  a  shudder, 
before  these  happy  combinations  were  at  length 
launched  upon  the  world.  Think  of  the  jeers  of 
derision  that  greeted  the  first  announcement  of 
these  preposterous  concoctions !  Imagine  the  guffaws 
when  a  man  told  his  companions  that  he  had  been 
eating  red  currant  jelly  with  jugged  hare  !  Imagine 
the  nameless  dietetic  atrocities  that  that  ingenious 
epicure  must  have  perpetrated  before  he  hit  upon 
his  ultimate  triumph !  I  have  not  the  initiative 
to  attempt  it.  I  lack  the  splendid  daring  of  the 
.pioneer.  In  a  thousand  years'  time  men  will  smack 
their  lips  over  all  kinds  of  mixtures  of  which  I 
should  shudder  to  hear.  I  am  content  to  go  on 
eating  this  by  itself  and  that  by  itself,  just  as  for 


Strawberries  and  Cream  29 

ages  men  were  content  to  eat  strawberries  by  them- 
selves and  cream  by  itself,  never  dreaming  that  this 
thing  and  that  thing  as  much  belong  to  each  other 
as  do  strawberries  and  cream. 

Now  this  genius  for  mixing  things  is  one  of  the 
hall-marks  of  our  humanity.  Strawberry  leaves 
are  part  of  the  crest  of  a  duchess ;  but  strawberries 
and  cream  might  be  regarded  as  a  suitable  crest  for 
the  race.  Man  is  an  animal,  but  he  is  more  than  an 
animal ;  and  he  proves  his  superiority  by  mixing 
things.  His  poorer  relatives  of  the  brute  creation 
never  do  it.  They  eat  strawberries,  and  they  are 
fond  of  cream ;  but  it  would  never  have  occurred 
to  any  one  of  them  to  mix  the  strawberries  with  the 
cream.  An  animal,  even  the  most  intelligent  and 
domesticated  animal,  will  eat  one  thing  and  then 
he  will  eat  another  thing;  but  the  idea  of  mixing 
the  first  thing  with  the  second  thing  before  eating 
either  never  enters  into  his  comprehension. 

The  strawberries  and  cream  represent,  therefore, 
in  a  pleasant  and  attractive  way,  our  human  genius 
for  mixing  things.  There  is  nothing  surprising 
about  it.  Indeed,  it  is  eminently  fitting  and  char- 
acteristic. For  we  are  ourselves  such  extraordinary 
medlies.  Let  any  man  think  his  way  back  across 
the  ages,  and  mark  the  ingredients  that  have  woven 
themselves  into  his  make-up,  and  he  will  not  be 
surprised  at  the  extraordinary  miscellany  of  passions 


30  Strawberries  and  Cream 

that  he  sometimes  discovers  within  the  recesses  of 
his  own  soul.  '  I  remember,'  Rudyard  Kipling  makes 
the  Thames  to  say : 

...  I  remember,  like  yesterday. 

The  earliest  Cockney  who  came  my  way, 

When  he  pushed  through  the  forest  that  lined  the 

Strand, 

With  paint  on  his  face  and  a  club  in  his  hand. 
He  was  death  to  feather  and  fin  and  fur, 
He  trapped  my  beavers  at  Westminster, 
He  netted  my  salmon,  he  hunted  my  deer, 
He  killed  my  herons  off  Lambeth  Pier ; 
He  fought  his  neighbour  with  axes  and  swords, 
Flint  or  bronze,  at  my  upper  fords, 
While  down  at  Greenwich  for  slaves  and  tin 
The  tall  Phoenician  ships  stole  in. 

Men  of  the  island  caves  mixed  their  blood  with  men 
of  the  great  continental  forests.  It  was  an  extra- 
ordinary agglomeration. 

Norseman  and  Negro  and  Gaul  and  Greek 
Drank  with  the  Britons  in  Barking  Creek, 
And  the  Romans  came  with  a  heavy  hand, 
And  bridged  and  roaded  and  ruled  the  land, 
And  the  Roman  left  and  the  Danes  blew  in — 
And  that's  where  your  history  books  begin ! 

Is  it  any  wonder  that  sometimes  I  feel,  mingling  with 
the  emotions  inspired  by  a  recent  communion  service, 


Strawberries  and  Cream  31 

the  savagery  of  some  long-forgotten  caveman  an- 
cestor ?  Civilization  is  so  very  young,  and  barbarism 
was  so  very  old,  that  it  is  not  surprising  that  I 
occasionally  hark  back  involuntarily  to  the  days  to 
which  my  blood  was  most  accustomed.  I  am 
an  odd  mixture  considered  from  any  point  of  view. 
'  There  are  very  few  human  actions,'  says  I.iark 
Rutherford,  '  of  which  it  can  be  said  that  this  or 
that,  taken  by  itself,  produced  them.  With  our 
inborn  tendency  to  abstract,  to  separate  mentally 
the  concrete  into  factors  which  do  not  exist  separ- 
ately, we  are  always  disposed  to  assign  causes  which 
are  too  simple.  Nothing  in  nature  is  propelled  or 
impeded  by  one  force  acting  alone.  There  is  no 
such  thing,  save  in  the  brain  of  the  mathematician. 
I  see  no  reason  why  even  motives  diametrically 
opposite  should  not  unite  in  one  resulting  deed.' 
Of  course  not !  It  is  my  duty,  that  is  to  say,  to 
take  myself  to  pieces  as  little  as  possible.  It  does 
not  really  matter  how  much  of  my  present  tempera- 
ment I  got  from  the  communion  service,  and  how 
much  I  got  from  the  caveman  with  the  club  in  his 
hand.  Here  I  am,  a  present  entity,  with  the  caveman, 
the  tribesman,  the  Roman,  and  the  Dane  all  mixed 
up  together  in  me  ;  and  it  is  my  business,  instead  of 
taking  the  complex  mechanism  to  pieces,  to  make  it, 
as  a  united  and  harmonious  whole,  do  the  work  for 
which  I  have  been  sent  into  the  world.  I  am  not 


32  Strawberries  and  Cream 

to  talk  one  moment  of  the  strawberries  on  my  plate, 
and  then,  in  the  next  breath,  to  speak  of  the  cream. 
It  is  not  so  much  a  matter  of  strawberries  and 
cream  as  of  strawberriesandcream. 

There  is,  I  fancy,  a  good  deal  in  that.  We  are 
too  fond  of  taking  the  cream  from  the  strawberries, 
and  the  strawberries  from  the  cream.  I  have  on 
my  plate  here,  not  two  things,  but  one  thing ;  and 
that  one  thing  is  strawberriesandcream.  One  of  the 
oldest  and  one  of  the  silliest  mistakes  that  men  have 
made  is  their  everlasting  inclination  to  divide 
strawberries-and-cream  into  strawberries  and  cream. 
Think  of  the  toothless  chatter  concerning  the  sexes. 
Have  men  or  women  done  most  for  the  world  ? 
Is  the  husband  or  is  the  wife  most  essential  to  the 
home  ?  It  will  be  quite  time  enough  to  attempt  to 
answer  such  ridiculous  questions  when  the  waitresses 
at  the  restaurants  begin  to  ask  us  whether  we  will 
have  strawberries  or  cream !  In  the  beginning,  we 
are  told,  God  created  man  in  His  own  image,  male 
and  female  created  He  them.  It  is  not  so  much 
a  matter  of  male  and  female  :  it  is  maleand female, 
just  as  it  is  strawberriesandcream.  The  thing  takes 
other  forms.  Which  do  you  prefer — summer  or 
winter?  As  though  we  should  appreciate  summer 
if  we  never  had  a  winter,  or  winter  if  we  never  had 
a  summer !  Is  song  or  speech  the  most  effective 
evangelistic  agency?  As  though  there  would  be 


Strawberries  and  Cream  33 

anything  to  sing  about  if  the  gospel  had  never 
been  preached  !  Or  anything  worth  preaching  if  the 
gospel  had  never  set  anybody  singing !  It  is  so 
very  ridiculous  to  try  to  separate  the  strawberries 
from  the  cream.  Miss  Rosaline  Masson,  in  com- 
menting upon  Wordsworth's  beautiful  sonnet  on 
Westminster  Bridge,  says  that  it  is  the  outcome 
of  Dorothy  Wordsworth's  divine  power  of  perception 
and  her  brother's  divine  power  of  expression.  But 
who  would  dare  to  take  the  sonnet  to  pieces  and  say 
how  much  is  Dorothy's,  and  how  much  is  William's  ? 
It  is  Dorothy's  and  William's.  It  is  strawberries 
and  cream. 

I  always  feel  extremely  sorry  for  the  man  who 
tries  to  move  a  vote  of  thanks  at  the  close  of  a 
pleasant  and  successful  function.  Not  for  worlds 
could  I  be  persuaded  to  attempt  it.  It  is  a  most 
difficult  and  complicated  business,  and  I  should 
collapse  utterly.  It  consists  in  taking  the  whole 
performance  to  pieces  and  allocating  the  praise. 
So  much  for  the  decorators ;  so  much  for  the  singers  ; 
so  much  for  the  elocutionists ;  so  much  for  the 
speakers ;  so  much  for  the  chairman ;  so  much  for 
the  pianist ;  so  much  for  the  secretary ;  and  so  on. 
To  me  it  would  be  like  furnishing  a  statistical  table 
on  leaving  the  restaurant  showing  how  much  of 
my  enjoyment  I  owed  to  the  strawberries  and  how 
much  to  the  cream.  Dissection  is  not  in  my 

c 


34  Strawberries  and  Cream 

line.    I  only  know  that  I  thoroughly  enjoyed  the 
strawberriesandcream. 

In  selecting  strawberries  and  cream  as  emblems 
of  the  mixed  things  of  life,  I  fancy  that  my  choice 
is  a  particularly  happy  one.  That  cream  must 
be  mixed  with  other  foods  goes  without  saying  ;  and 
in  Shakespeare's  most  notable  reference  to  straw- 
berries it  is  the  same  peculiarity  that  seems  to  have 
impressed  him.  He  has  a  very  pleasing  allusion 
to  the  facility  with  which  the  strawberry  mixea 
with  other  things.  The  passage  occurs  at  the 
beginning  of  King  Henry  the  Fifth.  The  Archbishop 
of  Canterbury  and  the  Bishop  of  Ely  are  discussing 
the  new  king.  They  are  astonished  at  the  change 
which  has  overtaken  him  since  his  accession.  As 
a  prince  he  was  wild  and  dissolute,  and  broke  his 
father's  heart.  But,  as  soon  as  he  became  king, 
he  instantly  sent  for  his  boon-companions,  told 
them  that  he  intended  by  God's  good  grace  to  live 
an  entirely  new  life,  and  begged  them  to  follow  his 
example.  As  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury  puts  it : 

The  breath  no  sooner  left  his  father's  body 

But  that  his  wildness,  mortified  in  him, 

Seemed  to  die,  too.     Yea,   at  that  very  moment. 

Consideration  like  an  angel  came, 

And  whipped  the  offending  Adam  out  of  him. 

Leaving  his  body  as  a  paradise, 

To  envelop  and  contain  celestial  spirits. 


Strawberries  and  Cream  35 

To  which  the  Bishop  of  Ely  replies : 

The  strawberry  grows  underneath  the  nettle, 
And  wholesome  berries  thrive  and  ripen  best, 
Neighboured  by  fruit  of  baser  quality. 

It  is  a  suggestive  passage,  considered  from  any 
point  of  view  We  live  mixed  lives  in  a  mixed 
world,  and  we  do  not  come  upon  the  strawberries 
by  themselves  or  all  at  once.  We  may  find  straw- 
berries to-morrow  where  we  can  discover  nothing 
but  stinging-nettles  to-day  '  Madcap  Harry '  was 
not  the  only  son  whose  life  at  first  yielded  nothing 
but  nettles  that  stung  and  lacerated  his  father's 
soul,  and  yet  afterwards  produced  strawberries 
that  were  the  delight,  not  only  of  the  Church,  but 
of  the  world  at  large. 


Ill 

THE   CONQUEST   OF   THE   CRAGS 

I  WAS  strolling  one  still  evening  along  a  lonely 
New  Zealand  shore,  when  I  made  a  grim  discovery 
that  has  often  set  me  thinking.  I  had  been  walking 
along  the  wet  and  crinkled  sands,  the  tide  being  out, 
and  had  amused  myself  with  the  shells  and  the 
seaweed  that  had  been  left  lying  about  by  the 
receding  waters.  There  is  always  a  peculiar  charm 
about  such  a  stroll.  It  holds  such  infinite  possibilities. 
One  seems  to  be  exploiting  the  surprise-packet  of 
the  universe.  Jane  Barlow,  in  her  Bogland  Studies, 
makes  one  of  her  characters  say : 

What  use  is  one's  life  widout  chances  ?    Ye've  always  a 

chance  wid  the  tide; 
For   ye  never   can  tell  what   'twill  take  in  its  head   to 

strew  round  on  the  shore ; 
Maybe    driftwood,    or  grand  bits  of   boards   that  come 

handy  for  splicing  an  oar, 
Or    a    crab  skytin'    back    o'er  the   shine    o*    the    wet; 

sure,  whatever  ye've  found, 
It's  a  sort  of  diversion  them  whiles  when  ye've  starvin' 

and  strelin'  around. 

Absorbed  in  so  delightful  an  occupation  the  pas- 
sage of  time  escaped  my  attention,  until  suddenly 

36 


The  Conquest  of  the  Crags  37 

I  noticed  that  twilight  was  rapidly  falling,  and  I 
thought  of  my  return.  Before  retracing  my  steps, 
however,  I  sat  down  for  a  moment's  rest  among 
the  sand-dunes.  The  possibility  of  making  a  dis- 
covery among  those  arid  mounds  did  not  occur 
to  me.  But,  as  I  sat  absent-mindedly  poking  the 
soft  sand  with  my  stick,  I  suddenly  struck  something 
hard.  I  proceeded  to  dig  it  out,  and  found  a  couple 
of  human  skulls.  They  adorn  the  top  shelf  of  my 
book-case  before  me  at  this  moment.  They  always 
look  down  upon  me  as  I  write.  I  often  catch 
myself  leaning  back  in  my  chair,  staring  up  at  them, 
and  trying  to  read  their  secret.  Who  were  they, 
I  wonder,  these  two  bony  companions  of  mine? 
Two  Maoris  finishing,  among  the  lonely  dunes, 
their  last  fierce  fatal  feud?  Two  travellers,  hope- 
lessly lost,  who  threw  themselves  down  here  to  die  ? 
A  couple  of  sailors,  whose  ship  had  struck  the  cruel 
reefs  out  yonder,  and  whose  bodies  were  tossed  up 
here  by  the  pitiless  waves  ?  A  pair  of  lovers  trapped 
by  the  treacherous  tide  ?  I  cannot  tell.  What  a 
tantalizing  mystery  they  seem  to  hold,  as  they 
grin  down  at  me  from  this  high  shelf  of  mine ! 
It  is  part  of  the  ghostly  sense  of  mystery  that 
always  haunts  the  sea  and  its  tragedies.  On  the 
land,  when  disaster  occurs,  all  the  wreckage  is  left 
to  tell  its  own  tale ;  but  on  the  ocean  Fate  instantly 
obliterates  all  her  tracks.  The  magnificent  vessel 


38  The  Conquest  of  the  Crags 

lurches  over,  plunges  with  a  roar  into  the  deep, 
and  the  waves  close  over  the  frightful  ruin.  Com- 
pared with  the  silence  of  the  sea,  the  Sphinx  is 
voluble.  The  deep,  dark,  icy  ocean-bed  guards  its 
secrets,  and  guards  them  well. 

Sometimes,  however,  it  is  more  easy  to  read  the 
riddle.  Here  in  Tasmania,  within  easy  reach  of 
this  quiet  study  of  mine,  there  is  a  battle-field  that 
I  love  to  visit  It  extends  for  miles  and  miles, 
and  the  whole  place  is  strewn  with  the  wreckage 
that  tells  of  the  titanic  conflict.  I  do  not  mean 
that  the  place  is  littered  with  dead  men's  bones. 
It  was  a  far  finer  and  a  far  fiercer  fight  than  men 
could  have  waged,  and  it  lasted  longer  than  any 
war  recorded  in  the  annals  of  history.  It  is  the 
battle-field  on  which  the  land  fought  the  sea.  It  is 
a  rocky  and  precipitous  coast.  Sometimes  I  like 
to  walk  along  the  top  of  the  cliff,  and  look  down  upon 
the  pile  of  massive  boulders  that  lie  tumbled  in 
picturesque  and  bewildering  confusion  about  the 
beach  below.  Or,  at  low  tide,  I  like  to  make  my 
way  among  those  monstrous  piles  of  broken  rock 
that  lie,  higgledy-piggledy,  all  along  the  shore. 
What  a  fight  it  was,  day  and  night,  summer  and 
winter,  year  in  and  year  out,  age  after  age  !  Occa- 
sionally the  attack  slackened  down,  and  the  rip- 
pling waters  merely  lapped  softly  against  the  rocks. 
But  there  was  no  real  truce.  The  sea  was  only 


The  Conquest  of  the  Crags  39 

gathering  up  its  forces  in  secret  for  the  majestic 
assault  that  was  to  come.  Then  the  great  breakers 
came  rushing  in,  like  regiments  of  cavalry  in  full 
career,  and  each  huge  wave  hurled  itself  upon  the 
crags  with  such  fury  that  the  spray  dashed  up 
sky  high 

It  was  a  titanic  struggle,  and  the  waters  won. 
That  is  the  extraordinary  thing — the  waters  won. 
The  water  seems  so  soft,  so  yielding,  so  fluid,  and 
the  rocks  seem  so  impregnable,  so  adamantine, 
so  immutable.  Yet  the  waters  always  win.  The 
land  makes  no  impression  on  the  sea ;  but  the 
sea  grinds  the  land  to  powder.  I  know  that  the  sea 
is  often  spoken  of  as  the  natural  emblem  of  all  that 
is  fickle  and  changeful ;  but  it  is  a  pure  illusion. 
There  are,  of  course  superficial  variations  of  tone 
and  tint  and  temper ;  but,  as  compared  with  the 
kaleidoscopic  changes  that  overtake  the  land,  the 
ocean  is  eternally  and  everywhere  the  same.  It, 
and  not  the  rocks,  is  the  symbol  of  immutability. 
'  Look  at  the  sea  ! '  exclaims  Max  Pemberton,  in 
Red  Morn.  '  How  I  love  it !  I  like  to  think  that 
those  great  rolling  waves  will  go  leaping  by  a  thou- 
sand years  from  now.  There  is  never  any  change 
about  the  sea.  You  never  come  back  to  it  and  say, 
"  How  it's  changed !  "  or  "  Who's  been  building 
here  ?  "  or  "  Where's  the  old  place  I  loved  ?  "  No ; 
it  is  always  the  same.  I  suppose  if  one  stood  here 


40  The  Conquest  o!  the  Crags 

for  a  million  years  the  sea  would  not  be  different. 
You're  quite  sure  of  it,  and  it  never  disappoints  you.' 
The  land,  on  the  contrary,  is  for  ever  changing. 
Man  is  always  working  his  transformations,  and 
Nature  is  toiling  to  the  same  end. 

'  When  the  Romans  came  to  England/  says 
Frank  Buckland,  the  naturalist,  '  Julius  Caesar 
probably  looked  upon  an  outline  of  cliff  very  different 
from  that  which  holds  our  gaze  to-day.  First 
there  comes  a  sun-crack  along  the  edge  of  the  cliff ; 
the  rain-water  gets  into  the  crack ;  then  comes  the 
frost.  The  rain-water  in  freezing  expands,  and  by 
degrees  wedges  off  a  great  slice  of  chalk  cliff ;  down 
this  tumbles  into  the  water ;  and  Neptune  sets  his 
great  waves  to  work  to  tidy  up  the  mess.'  No 
man  can  know  the  veriest  rudiments  of  geology 
without  recognizing  that  it  Is  the  land,  and  not  the 
sea,  that  is  constantly  changing.  We  may  visit 
some  historic  battle-field  to-day,  and,  finding  it  a 
network  of  bustling  streets  and  crowded  alleys, 
may  hopelessly  fail  to  repeople  the  scene  with  the 
battalions  that  wheeled  and  charged,  wavered  and 
rallied,  there  in  the  brave  days  of  old.  But  when, 
from  the  deck  of  a  steamer,  I  surveyed  the  blue  and 
tossing  waters  off  Cape  Trafalgar,  I  knew  that  I 
was  gazing  upon  the  scene  just  as  it  presented 
itself  to  the  eye  of  Nelson  on  the  day  of  his  immortal 
victory  and  glorious  death  more  than  a  century  ago. 


The  Conquest  of  the  Crags  4r 

Now,  beneath  this  triumph  of  the  ocean — the 
triumph  that  leaves  the  land  in  fragments  whilst 
the  sea  itself  sustains  no  injury — there  lies  a  deeper 
significance  than  at  first  appears.  Job  saw  it. 
No  elusive  secret,  lurking  in  the  universe  around 
him,  escaped  his  restless  eye.  '  The  waters  wear 
the  stones ! '  he  cried,  and  it  was  a  shout  of  victory 
that  rose  from  his  heart  when  he  said  it.  '  The 
waters  wear  the  stones,'  he  exclaimed,  '  and  Thou 
washest  away  the  things  which  grow  out  of  the  dust 
of  the  earth.'  It  is  the  death-knell  of  the  material. 
It  is  the  triumph  of  the  eternal.  A  little  child  looks 
upon  the  great  granite  cliffs,  and  it  seems  impossible 
that  the  lapping  waves  can  ever  pound  them  to 
pieces.  But  they  do  And  in  the  same  way,  Job 
says,  man  seems  so  impregnable,  and  the  world  so 
mighty,  that  it  appears  a  thing  incredible  that  God 
can  finally  prevail.  But  He  shall.  The  quiet 
waters  conquer  the  frowning  cliffs  at  length.  The 
walls  of  Jericho  fall  down.  This  is  the  victory  that 
overcometh  the  world. 

And  so  here  on  this  battle-field  where  the  land 
and  the  sea  fought  for  mastery,  I  find  Job  sitting, 
and  he  interprets  for  me  the  paean  that  the  waves 
are  singing.  It  is  the  laughter  of  their  triumph. 
'  The  waters  wear  away  the  stones.'  That  was  the 
heartening  message  that  gave  to  Spain  one  of  her 
very  greatest  teachers.  St.  Isidore  of  Seville  was 


42  The  Conquest  o!  the  Crags 

only  a  boy  at  the  time.  He  found  his  lessons  hard 
to  learn.  Study  was  a  drudgery,  and  he  was  tempted 
to  give  up.  The  huge  obstacles  against  which  he, 
like  the  waves  at  the  base  of  the  cliff,  was  beating 
out  his  life  seemed  adamantine.  So  he  ran  away 
from  school.  But  in  the  heat  of  the  day  he  sat  down 
to  rest  beside  a  little  spring  that  trickled  over  a  rock. 
He  noticed  that  the  water  fell  hi  drops,  and  only  one 
drop  at  a  time ;  yet  those  drops  had  worn  away  a 
large  stone.  It  reminded  him  of  the  tasks  he  had 
forsaken,  and  he  returned  to  his  desk.  Diligent 
application  overcame  his  dullness,  and  made  him 
one  of  the  first  scholars  of  his  time.  He  never 
forgot  the  drops  of  water,  dripping,  dripping,  dripping 
on  the  rock  that  they  were  conquering.  '  Those 
drops  of  water,'  says  his  biographer,  '  gave  to  Spain 
a  brilliant  historian,  and  to  the  Church  a  famous 
doctor.' 

It  is  always  the  gentle  things  of  life  that  conquer 
us.  '  The  moving  waters  ' — to  quote  Keats'  beau- 
tiful phrase — 

The  moving  waters  at  their  priest-like  task 
Of  pure  ablution  round  earth's  human  shores  ' 

wear  down  the  towering  cliffs  along  the  coast. 
It  is  Aesop's  fable  of  the  North  Wind  and  the  sun 
over  again.  The  North  Wind,  with  its  violence 
and  bluster,  only  makes  the  traveller  button  his 


The  Conquest  of  the  Crags  43 

coat  the  tighter.  It  is  the  genial  warmth  of  the 
sun  that  makes  him  take  it  off.  It  is  always  by 
gentleness  that  the  adamantine  world  is  mastered. 
That  is  one  of  life's  most  lovely  secrets.  We  are  not 
ruled  as  much  as  we  think  by  parliaments  and  com- 
mandments and  enactments.  The  proportion  of  our 
lives  that  is  governed  by  such  things  is  very  small. 
But  the  proportion  that  is  dominated  by  gentler 
and  more  winsome  forces  is  very  great.  The  voices 
that  sway  us  with  a  regal  authority  are  soft  and 
tender  voices,  the  voices  of  those  whose  genial 
goodness  compels  us  to  love  them.  The  imperial 
tones  to  which  we  capitulate  unconditionally  are 
very  rarely  stern  official  tones.  Who  does  not 
remember  how,  in  The  Rosary,  the  Hon.  Jane 
Champion  asks  Garth  Dalmain  why  he  does  not 
marry?  And  Garth  tells  her  of  old  Margery,  his 
childhood's  friend  and  nurse,  now  his  housekeeper 
and  general  mender  and  tender — old  Margery, 
with  her  black  satin  apron,  lawn  kerchief,  and 
lavender  ribbons.  '  No  doubt,  Miss  Champion, 
it  will  seem  absurd  to  you  that  I  should  sit  here  on 
the  duchess's  lawn  and  confess  that  I  have  been 
held  back  from  proposing  marriage  to  the  women 
I  most  admired  because  of  what  would  have  been 
my  old  nurse's  opinion  of  them.'  Yet  so  it  invariably 
is.  Our  servants  are  often  our  masters.  Life's 
loftiest  authorities  never  derive  their  sanctions 


44  The  Conquest  oi  the  Crags 

from  rank,  office,  or  station.  The  soul  has  en- 
thronements and  coronations  of  its  own.  A  little 
child  often  leads  it.  A  Carpenter  becomes  its  king. 
Out  of  Nazareth  comes  the  Conqueror  of  the  World. 
The  pure  and  cleansing  waters  wear  down  the  giant 
crags  at  the  last. 

But  with  purity  and  gentleness  must  go  patience. 
The  lapping  waters  do  not  reduce  the  rocky  strata 
at  a  blow.  It  is  always  by  means  of  patience  that 
the  finest  conquests  are  won.  Who  that  has  read 
Jack  London's  Call  of  the  Wild  will  ever  forget  the 
great  fight  at  the  end  of  the  book  between  Buck, 
the  dog  hero,  and  the  huge  bull-moose  ?  '  Three 
hundredweight  more  than  half  a  ton  he  weighed, 
the  old  bull ;  he  had  lived  a  long,  strong  life,  full 
of  fight  and  struggle,  and  at  the  end  he  faced  death 
at  the  teeth  of  a  creature  whose  head  did  not  reach 
beyond  his  great  knuckled  knees ! '  How  was  it 
done  ?  '  There  is  a  patience  in  the  wild,'  Jack 
London  says,  '  a  patience  dogged,  tireless,  persistent 
as  life  itself ' ;  and  it  was  by  means  of  this  patience 
that  Buck  brought  down  his  stately  antlered  prey. 
'  Night  and  day,  Buck  never  left  him,  never  gave 
him  a  moment's  rest,  never  permitted  him  to  browse 
on  the  leaves  of  the  trees  or  the  shoots  of  the  young 
birch  or  willow.  Nor  did  he  give  the  old  bull  one 
single  opportunity  to  slake  his  burning  thirst  in  the 
slender,  trickling  streams  they  crossed.'  For  four 


The  Conquest  of  the  Crags  45 

days  Buck  hung  pitilessly  at  the  huge  beast's  heels, 
and  at  the  end  of  the  fourth  day  he  pulled  the  bull- 
moose  down.  Buck  looked  so  little,  but  he  wore 
the  monarch  out.  The  waters  seem  so  feeble,  but 
they  beat  the  rocks  to  powder.  It  is  thus  that  the 
foolish  things  of  this  world  always  confound  the 
wise ;  the  weak  things  conquer  the  mighty  ;  and  the 
things  that  are  not  bring  to  naught  the  things  that 
are. 


IV 
LINOLEUM 

TRUE  love  is  never  utilitarian.  I  am  well  aware  that, 
in  novels  and  in  plays,  the  fair  heroine  considerately 
falls  in  love  with  the  brave  man  who,  at  a  critical 
moment,  saves  her  from  a  watery  grave  or  from  the 
lurid  horrors  of  a  burning  building.  It  is  very 
good  of  the  lady  in  the  novel.  I  admire  the  gratitude 
which  prompts  her  romantic  affection,  and,  nine 
times  out  of  ten,  my  judgement  cordially  approves 
her  taste.  I  know,  too,  that,  in  fiction,  the  sick 
or  wounded  hero  invariably  falls  desperately  in 
love  with  the  devoted  nurse  whose  patient  and 
untiring  attention  ensures  his  recovery.  It  is  very 
good  of  the  hero.  Again  I  say,  I  admire  his  gratitude 
and  almost  invariably  endorse  his  choice.  But  it 
must  be  distinctly  understood  that  this  sort  of 
thing  is  strictly  confined  to  novels  and  theatricals. 
In  real  life,  men  and  women  do  not  fall  in  love  out  of 
gratitude.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  am  much  more 
likely  to  fall  in  love  with  somebody  for  whom  I  have 
done  something  than  with  somebody  who  has  done 
something  for  me. 

46 


Linoleum  47 

I  was  talking  the  other  day  with  a  nurse  in  a 
children's  hospital.  It  is  a  heartbreaking  business, 
she  told  me.  '  You  get  into  the  way  of  nursing 
them,  and  comforting  them,  and  playing  with  them, 
and  mothering  them,  until  you  feel  that  they  belong 
to  you.  And  then,  just  as  you  have  come  to  love 
the  little  thing  as  though  he  were  your  own,  out  he 
goes.  And  he  always  goes  out  with  his  father  or 
his  mother,  clapping  his  hands  for  very  joy  at  the 
excitement  of  going  home,  and  you  are  left  with  a 
big  lump  in  your  throat,  and  perhaps  a  tear  in 
your  eye,  at  the  thought  that  you  will  never  see 
him  again  !  '  Clearly,  therefore,  we  do  not  fall  in 
love  as  a  matter  of  gratitude.  The  people  who 
cling  to  us  and  depend  upon  us  are  much  more 
likely  to  win  our  hearts  than  the  people  who  have 
placed  us  under  an  obligation  to  them.  If,  instead 
of  telling  us  that  the  heroine  fell  in  love  with  the 
man  who  had  saved  her  from  drowning,  the  novelist 
had  told  us  that  the  man  who  risked  his  life  by  plung- 
ing into  the  river  fell  in  love  with  the  white  and 
upturned  face  as  he  laid  it  gently  on  the  bank ; 
or  if,  instead  of  telling  us  that  the  patient  fell  in 
love  with  the  nurse,  he  had  told  us  that  the  nurse 
fell  in  love  with  the  patient  upon  whom  she  had 
lavished  such  beautiful  devotion,  he  would  have 
been  much  more  true  to  nature  and  to  real  life. 
It  is  indisputable,  of  course,  that,  the  rescuer  having 


48  Linoleum 

fallen  in  love  with  the  rescued,  she  may  soon  discover 
his  secret,  and,  since  love  begets  love,  reciprocate 
his  affection.  It  is  equally  true  that,  the  nurse 
having  conceived  so  tender  a  passion  for  her  patient, 
he  may  soon  read  the  meaning  of  the  light  in  her 
eye  and  of  the  tone  in  her  voice,  and  feel  towards 
her  as  she  first  felt  towards  him.  But  that  is 
quite  another  matter,  and  is  beside  our  point  at 
present.  Just  now,  I  am  only  concerned  with 
challenging  the  novelist's  unwarrantable  assumption 
that  we  fall  in  love  out  of  gratitude.  We  do  nothing 
of  the  kind.  Love,  I  repeat,  is  never  utilitarian. 
We  may  fall  hopelessly  in  love  with  a  thing  that  is  of 
very  little  use  to  us  ;  and  we  may  feel  no  sentimental 
attractions  at  all  towards  a  thing  that  is  almost 
indispensable.  If  any  man  dares  to  dispute  these 
conclusions,  I  shall  simply  produce  a  roll  of  linoleum 
in  support  of  my  arguments,  and  he  will  be  promptly 
crushed  beneath  the  weight  of  argument  that  the 
linoleum  will  furnish. 

The  linoleum  is  the  most  conspicuous  feature  of  the 
domestic  establishment.  It  is  impertinent,  self-asser- 
tive, and  loud.  If  you  visit  a  house  in  which  there  is 
a  linoleum,  the  thing  rushes  at  you,  and  you  see  it 
even  before  the  front  door  has  been  opened.  Every 
minister  who  spends  his  afternoons  in  knocking  at 
people's  doors  knows  exactly  what  I  mean.  The 
very  sound  of  the  knock  tells  you  a  good  deal.  Such 


Linoleum  49 

sounds  are  of  three  kinds.  There  is  the  echoing  and 
reverberating  knock  that  tells  you  of  bare  boards ; 
there  is  the  dead  and  sombre  thud  that  tells  of  linoleum 
on  the  floor ;  and  there  is  the  softened  and  muffled 
tap  that  tells  of  a  hall  well  carpeted.  And  so  I  say 
that  the  linoleum — if  there  be  one — rushes  at  you, 
and  you  seem  to  see  it  even  before  the  door  has  been 
opened.  Perhaps  it  is  this  immodesty  on  its  part 
that  prevents  your  liking  it.  It  is  always  with 
the  coy,  shy,  modest  things  that  we  fall  in  love 
most  readily. 

But  however  that  may  be,  the  fact  remains. 
Since  this  queer  old  world  of  ours  began,  men  and 
women  have  fallen  in  love  with  all  sorts  of  strange 
things  ;  but  there  is  no  record  of  any  man  or  woman 
yet  having  really  fallen  in  love  with  a  roll  of  linoleum. 
Of  everything  else  about  the  house  you  get  very  fond. 
I  can  understand  a  man  shedding  tears  when  his 
arm-chair  has  to  go  to  the  sale-room  or  the  scrap- 
heap.  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  once  told  the  story 
of  his  favourite  chair  until  he  moved  his  schoolboy 
audience  to  tears !  And  everybody  knows  how 
Dickens  makes  you  laugh  and  cry  at  the  drollery 
and  pathos  with  which,  in  all  his  books,  he  invests 
chairs,  tables,  clocks,  pictures,  and  every  other 
article  of  furniture.  I  fancy  I  should  feel  life  to  be 
less  worth  living  if  I  were  deprived  of  some  of  the 
household  odds  and  ends  with  which  all  my  felicity 

D 


50  Linoleum 

seems  to  be  mysteriously  associated.  But  I  cannot 
conceive  of  myself  as  yielding  to  even  a  momentary 
sensation  of  tenderness  over  the  sale,  destruction, 
or  exchange  of  any  of  the  linoleums.  I  feel  perfectly 
certain  that  neither  Stevenson  nor  Dickens  would 
ever  have  felt  an  atom  of  sentiment  concerning 
linoleum.  Yet  why  ?  Few  things  about  the  house 
are  more  serviceable.  I  could  point  offhand  to  a 
hundred  things  no  one  of  which  has  earned  its  right 
to  a  place  in  the  home  one-hundredth  part  as  nobly 
as  has  the  linoleum.  Yet  I  am  very  fond  of  each 
of  those  hundred  things,  whilst  I  am  not  at  all  fond 
of  the  linoleum.  I  appreciate  it,  but  I  do  not  love 
it.  So  there  it  is !  Said  I  not  truly  that  love  is 
never  utilitarian  ?  We  grow  fond  of  things  because 
we  grow  fond  of  things  ;  we  never  grow  fond  of  things 
simply  because  they  are  of  use  to  us. 

But  we  cannot  in  decency  let  the  matter  rest  at 
that.  There  must  be  some  reason  for  the  failure 
of  the  linoleum  to  stir  my  affections.  Why  does 
it  alone,  among  my  household  goods  and  chattels, 
kindle  no  warmth  within  my  soul?  The  linoleum 
is  both  pretty  and  useful ;  what  more  can  I  want  ? 
Many  things  pretty,  but  not  useful,  have  swept 
me  off  my  feet.  Many  things  useful,  but  not  pretty, 
have  captivated  my  heart.  And  more  than  once 
things  neither  pretty  nor  useful  have  completely 
enslaved  me.  Yet  here  is  the  linoleum,  both  pretty 


Linoleum  51 

and  useful,  and  I  feel  for  it  no  fondness  whatsoever  ; 
I  remain  as  cold  as  ice,  and  as  hard  as  adamant. 
Why  is  it  ?  To  begin  with,  I  fancy  the  pattern  has 
something  to  do  with  it.  I  do  not  now  refer  to  any 
particular  pattern ;  but  to  all  the  linoleum  patterns 
that  were  ever  designed  Those  endless  squares 
and  circles  and  diamonds  and  stars  !  Could  anything 
be  more  repelling?  Here,  for  instance,  on  the 
linoleum,  I  find  a  star.  I  know  at  once  that  if  I 
look  I  shall  see  hundreds  of  similar  stars.  They 
will  all  be  in  perfectly  straight  lines,  not  one  a 
quarter  of  an  inch  out  of  its  place.  They  will  all 
be  mathematically  equidistant ;  they  will  be  of 
exactly  the  same  size,  of  identically  the  same  colour, 
and  their  angles  will  all  point  in  precisely  the  same 
direction.  If  the  stars  in  the  firmament  above 
us  were  arranged  on  the  same  principle,  they  would 
drive  us  mad.  The  beauty  of  it  is  that,  there, 
one  star  differeth  from  another  star  in  glory.  But 
on  the  linoleum  they  do  nothing  of  the  sort. 

Or  perhaps  the  pattern  is  a  floral  one.  It  thinks 
to  coax  me  into  a  feeling  that  I  am  in  the  garden 
among  the  roses,  the  rhododendrons,  or  the  chry- 
santhemums. But  it  is  a  hopeless  failure.  Who- 
ever saw  roses,  rhododendrons,  or  chrysanthemums, 
all  of  exactly  the  same  size,  of  precisely  the  same 
colour,  and  hanging  in  rows  at  mathematically 
identical  levels?  The  beauty  of  the  garden  is 


52  Linoleum 

that  having  looked  at  this  rose,  I  am  the  more 
eager  to  see  that  one ;  having  admired  this  chrysan- 
themum, I  am  the  more  curious  to  mark  the  variety 
presented  by  the  next.  No  two  are  precisely  the 
same.  And  because  this  infinite  diversity  is  the 
essential  charm  both  of  the  heavens  above  and  of 
the  earth  beneath,  I  am  shocked  and  repelled  by 
the  monotony  of  the  pattern  on  the  linoleum.  In 
the  old  days  it  was  customary  to  plaster  the  walls, 
even  of  sick-rooms,  with  papers  of  patterns  equally 
pronounced,  and  many  a  poor  patient  was  tortured 
almost  to  death  by  the  glaring  geometrical  abomina- 
tions. The  doctor  said  that  the  sufferer  was  to  be 
kept  perfectly  quiet ;  yet  the  pattern  on  the  wall 
is  allowed  to  scream  at  him  and  shout  at  him  from 
night  until  morning,  and  from  morning  until  night. 
He  has  counted  those  awful  stars  or  roses,  perpen- 
dicularly, horizontally,  diagonally,  from  right  to 
left,  from  left  to  right,  from  top  to  bottom,  and  from 
bottom  to  top,  until  the  hideous  monstrosities  are 
reproduced  in  frightful  duplicate  upon  the  fevered 
tissues  of  his  throbbing  brain.  He  may  close  his 
eyes,  but  he  sees  them  still.  It  was  a  form  of  torture 
worthy  of  an  inquisitor-general.  The  pattern  on 
the  linoleum  is  happily  not  quite  so  bad.  When  we 
are  ill  we  do  not  see  it ;  and  when  we  are  well  we  may 
to  some  extent  avoid  it.  Not  altogether ;  for  even 
if  we  do  not  look  at  it,  we  have  an  uncanny  feeling 


Linoleum  53 

that  it  is  there.  Between  the  hearthrug  and  the 
table  I  catch  sight  of  the  bright  flaunting  head  of 
a  scarlet  poppy,  or  of  the  tossing  petals  of  a  huge 
chrysanthemum,  and  my  imagination  instantly 
flashes  to  my  mind  the  horrible  impression  of  tan- 
talizing rows  of  exactly  similar  blossoms  running 
off  with  mathematical  precision  in  every  conceivable 
direction. 

For  some  reason  or  other  we  instinctively  recoil 
from  these  monotonous  regularities.  I  once  heard 
a  friend  observe  that  the  average  woman  would 
rather  marry  a  man  whose  life  was  painfully  irregular 
than  a  man  whose  life  was  painfully  regular.  It 
may  have  been  an  over-statement  of  the  case ; 
but  there  is  something  in  it.  We  fall  in  love  with 
good  people,  and  we  fall  in  love  with  bad  people ; 
but  with  the  man  who  is  '  too  proper/  and  the  woman 
who  is  '  too  straight-laced/  we  very,  very  rarely 
fall  in  love.  It  is  the  problem  of  Tennyson's  '  Maud.' 
As  a  girl  Maud  was  irregular — and  lovable. 

Maud,    with  her   venturous    climbings   and  tumbles   and 

childish  escapes, 
Maud,  the  delight  of  the  village,  the  ringing  joy  of   the 

Hall, 
Maud,  with  her  sweet  purse-mouth  when  my  father  dangled 

the  grapes, 
Maud,  the  beloved  of  my  mother,  the  moon-faced  darling 

of  all. 


54  Linoleum 

But  later  on  Maud  was  regular — and  as  unattractive 
as  linoleum. 

.  .  .  Maud,  she  has  neither  savour  nor  salt, 

But   a    cold   and   clear-cut    face,    as    I  found   when  her 

carriage  passed, 
Perfectly  beautiful  :  let  it  be  granted  her :  where  is  the 

fault  ? 
All  that  I  saw  (for  her  eyes  were  downcast,   not  to   be 

seen) 

Faultily  faultless,  icily  regular,  splendidly  null, 
Dead  perfection,  no  more. 

Shall  I  be  told  that  this  is  high  doctrine,  and 
hard  to  bear,  this  doctrine  of  the  lovableness  of 
irregularity?  I  think  not.  Towering  above  all 
our  biographies,  as  snowclad  heights  tower  above 
dusty  little  molehills,  there  stands  the  life-story  of 
One  who,  alone  among  the  sons  of  men,  was 
altogether  good.  It  is  the  most  charming  and 
the  most  varied  life-story  that  has  ever  been 
written  since  this  little  world  began.  Its  lovely 
deeds  and  graceful  speech,  its  tender  pathos 
and  its  awful  tragedy,  have  won  the  hearts 
of  men  all  over  the  world,  and  all  down  the  ages. 
But  find  monotony  there  if  you  can  !  It  is  like  a 
sky  full  of  stars  or  a  field  of  fairest  flowers.  The 
life  that  repels,  as  the  linoleum  repels,  by  the  very 
severity  of  its  regularity,  has  something  wrong  with 
it  somewhere. 


Linoleum  55 

If  I  have  outraged  the  sensibilities  of  any  well- 
meaning  champion  of  a  geometrical  and  mathematical 
and  linoleum-like  regularity,  let  me  hasten  to  conciliate 
him  !  I  know  that  even  regularity — the  regularity 
of  the  linoleum  pattern — may  have  its  advantages. 
Dr.  George  MacDonald,  in  Robert  Falconer,  says  that 
'  there  is  a  well-authenticated  story  of  a  notorious 
convict  who  was  reformed  by  entering,  in  one  of  the 
colonies,  a  church  where  the  matting  along  the  aisle 
was  of  the  same  pattern  as  that  in  the  church  to 
which  he  had  gone  with  his  mother  as  a  boy.'  Bravo  ! 
It  is  pleasant,  extremely  pleasant,  to  find  that  even 
monotony  has  its  compensations.  Let  .me  but  get 
to  know  my  '  too  proper  '  and  '  straight-laced ' 
friends  a  little  better,  and  I  shall  doubtless  discover 
even  there  a  few  redeeming  features. 

But,  for  all  that,  the  linoleum  is  cold ;  and  we  do 
not  fall  in  love  with  cold  things.  A  volcano  is  a 
much  more  dangerous  affair  than  an  iceberg ; 
but  it  is  much  more  easy  to  fall  in  love  with  the 
things  that  make  you  shudder  than  with  the  things 
that  make  you  shiver.  That  was  the  trouble  with 
Maud,  she  was  so  chilly  and  chilling ;  her  '  cold  and 
clear-cut  face,  faultily  faultless,  icily  regular,  splen- 
didly null  ! '  And  that  is  precisely  the  trouble 
with  every  system  of  religion,  morality,  or  philosophy 
— save  one — that  has  ever  been  presented  to  the 
minds  of  men.  Plato  and  Aristotle  and  Marcus 


56  Linoleum 

Aurelius  were  splendid,  simply  splendid ;  but  they 
were  frigid,  frigid  as  Maud,  and  their  counsels 
of  perfection  could  never  have  enchained  my  heart. 
Buddha,  Confucius,  Mohammed — the  stars  of  the 
East — were  wonderful,  but  oh,  so  cold  !  I  turn  from 
these  icy  regularities  to  the  lovely  life  I  have  already 
mentioned.  And,  to  use  Whittier's  expressive  word, 
it  is  '  warm/ 

Yes,  warm,  sweet,  tender,  even  yet 

A  present  help  is  He ; 
And  faith  has  yet  its  Olivet, 

And  love  its  Galilee. 

'  Warm  '  .  .  .  '  love  '  .  .  .  here  are  words  that  touch 
my  soul  to  tears.  '  We  love  Him  because  He  first 
loved  us.'  The  monotony  and  frigidity  of  the 
linoleum  have  given  way  to  the  beauty  and  the 
brightness  of  flowery  fields  all  bathed  in  summer 
sunshine. 


V 

THE  EDITOR 

I  APPROACH  my  present  theme  with  considerable 
diffidence,  for  reasons  obvious  and  for  reasons 
obscure.  For  one  thing,  I  was  for  some  years  an 
editor  myself,  and  I  cannot  satisfy  myself  that  the 
experiment  was  even  a  moderate  success.  Everything 
went  splendidly,  so  far  as  I  was  concerned,  as  long 
as  I  wrote  everything  myself ;  but  I  was  terribly 
pestered  by  other  people.  They  worried  me  year 
in  and  year  out,  morning,  noon,  and  night.  They 
would  insist  on  sending  me  manuscripts  that  I  had 
neither  the  grace  to  accept  nor  the  courage  to  decline. 
They  wrote  the  most  learned  treatises,  the  most 
pathetic  stories,  and  the  most  affecting  little  sonnets. 
The  latter,  they  explained,  were  for  Poet's  Corner. 
They  actually  deluged  me  with  letters,  intended 
for  publication,  dealing  with  all  sorts  of  subjects 
in  which  I  took  not  the  slightest  glimmer  of  interest. 
They  sometimes  even  presumed,  in  some  carping 
or  captious  way,  to  criticize  or  review  things  that 
I  had  myself  written — as  though  such  things  were 
open  to  question !  At  other  times  they  wrote  to 
applaud  the  sentiments  I  had  expressed — as  though 

57 


58  The  Editor 

I  needed  their  corroboration !  They  were  an  awful 
nuisance.  The  stupid  thing  was  only  a  monthly, 
and  how  they  imagined  that  there  would  be  any 
room  for  their  contributions,  by  the  time  1  had  been 
a  whole  month  writing,  passes  my  comprehension. 
Then  came  the  awakening,  and  it  was  a  rude  one. 
I  suddenly  realized  that  I  was  a  fraud,  a  delusion, 
and  a  snare.  I  was  not  an  editor  at  all.  I  was 
simply  masquerading,  playing  a  great  game  of 
bluff  and  make-believe.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I 
was  nothing  more  than  an  objectionably  garrulous 
contributor  who  had  gained  possession  of  the  editor's 
sanctum,  usurped  the  editor's  authority,  and  com- 
mandeered the  editor's  chair.  I  felt  so  ashamed 
of  myself  that  I  precipitately  fled,  and,  although  I 
have  several  times  since  been  invited  to  assume 
editorial  responsibilities,  I  have  shown  my  profound 
respect  for  journalism  by  politely  but  firmly  declining. 
It  does  not  at  all  follow  that,  because  a  man  can 
make  a  few  bricks,  he  can  therefore  build  a  mansion. 
A  chemist  may  be  very  clever  at  making  up  pre- 
scriptions, but  that  does  not  prove  his  ability  to 
prescribe. 

During  the  years  to  which  I  have  referred,  that 
paper  really  had  no  editor.  An  editor  would  have 
done  three  things.  He  would  have  written  a  few 
wise  words  himself.  He  would  have  pitilessly 
repressed  my  unconscionable  volubility.  And  he 


The  Editor  59 

would  have  given  the  public  the  benefit  of  some  of 
those  carefully  prepared  contributions  which  I, 
with  savage  satisfaction,  hurled  into  the  waste-paper 
basket.  It  would  have  been  a  good  thing  for  the 
paper  if  the  editorials  had  been  so  few  and  so  brief 
that  people  could  have  been  reasonably  expected  to 
read  them.  They  would  then  have  attached  to  them 
the  gravity  and  authority  that  such  contributions 
should  normally  carry.  And  it  would  have  been 
good  for  the  world  in  general,  and  for  me  in  particular, 
if  liberal  quantities  of  my  manuscript  had  been 
substitutionally  sacrificed  in  redemption  of  some  of 
those  rolls  of  paper,  whose  destruction  I  now  deplore, 
which  I  consigned  to  limbo  with  so  light  a  heart. 
Since  then  I  have  had  a  fairly  wide  experience  of 
editors,  and  the  years  have  increased  my  respect. 
'  O  Lord,'  an  up-country  suppliant  once  exclaimed 
at  the  week-night  prayer-meeting,  '  O  Lord,  the 
more  I  sees  of  other  people  the  more  1  likes  myself  ! ' 
I  do  not  quite  share  the  good  man's  feeling,  at  any 
rate  so  far  as  editors  are  concerned.  The  more  I 
have  seen  of  the  ways  of  other  editors  the  less  am  I 
pleased  with  the  memory  of  my  own  attempt. 
The  way  in  which  these  other  editors  have  treated 
my  own  manuscript  makes  me  blush  for  very  shame 
as  I  remember  my  editorial  intolerance  of  such 
packages.  Very  occasionally  an  editor  has  found 
it  necessary  to  delete  some  portion  of  my  contribution, 


60  The  Editor 

and,  nine  times  out  of  ten,  I  have  admired  the 
perspicacity  which  detected  the  excrescence  and 
strengthened  the  whole  by  removing  the  part.  I 
say  nine  times  out  of  ten ;  but  I  hint  at  the  tenth 
case  in  no  spirit  of  resentment  or  bitterness.  I  am 
young  yet,  and  the  years  may  easily  teach  me  that, 
even  in  the  instances  that  still  seem  doubtful  to 
me,  I  am  under  a  deep  and  lasting  obligation  to  the 
editorial  surgery. 

The  editor  is  the  emblem  of  all  those  potent, 
elusive,  invisible  forces  that  control  our  human 
destinies.  We  are  clearly  living  in  an  edited  world. 
We  may  not  always  agree  with  the  editor  ;  it  would 
be  passing  strange  if  we  did.  We  may  see  lots  of 
things  admitted  that  we,  had  we  been  editor,  would 
have  vigorously  excluded.  The  venom  of  the  cobra, 
the  cruelty  of  the  wolf,  the  anguish  of  a  sickly  babe, 
and  the  flaunting  shame  of  the  street  corner ;  had 
I  been  editor  I  should  have  ruthlessly  suppressed 
all  these  contributions.  But  my  earlier  experience 
of  editorship  haunts  my  memory  to  warn  me.  I 
was  too  fond  of  rejecting  things  in  those  days. 
I  was  too  much  attached  to  the  waste-paper  basket. 
And  I  have  been  sorry  for  it  ever  since.  And  perhaps 
when  I  have  lived  a  few  aeons  longer,  and  have  had 
experience  of  more  worlds  than  one,  I  shall  feel 
ashamed  of  my  present  inclination  to  doubt  the 
editor's  wisdom.  Knowing  as  little  as  I  know, 


The  Editor  61 

I  should  certainly  have  rejected  these  contributions 
with  scorn  and  impatience.  The  fangs  of  the  viper, 
the  teeth  of  the  crocodile,  and  all  things  hideous 
and  hateful,  I  should  have  intolerantly  excluded. 
And,  some  ages  later,  with  the  experience  of  a  few 
millenniums  and  the  knowledge  of  many  worlds  to 
guide  me,  I  should  have  lamented  my  folly,  even 
as  I  now  deplore  my  old  editorial  exclusiveness. 

And,  on  the  other  hand,  we  sometimes  catch  a 
glimpse  of  the  editor's  waste-paper  basket,  and  the 
revelation  is  an  astounding  one.  The  waste  of  the 
world  is  terrific.  And  among  these  rejected  manu- 
scripts I  see  some  most  exquisitely  beautiful  things. 
The  other  day,  not  far  from  here,  a  snake  bit  a 
little  girl  and  killed  her.  Now  here  was  a  curious 
freak  of  editorship  !  On  the  editor's  table  there  lay 
two  manuscripts.  There  was  the  snake — a  loathsome, 
scaly  brute,  with  wicked  little  eyes  and  venomous 
fangs,  a  thing  that  made  your  flesh  creep  to  look  at  it. 
And  there  was  the  little  girl,  a  sweet  little  thing  with 
curly  hair  and  soft  blue  eyes,  a  thing  that  you 
could  not  see  without  loving.  Had  I  been  there, 
I  should  have  tried  to  kill  the  snake  and  save  the 
child.  That  is  to  say,  I  should  have  accepted  the 
child-manuscript,  and  rejected  the  snake-manuscript. 
But  the  editor  does  exactly  the  opposite.  The 
snake-manuscript  is  accepted ;  the  horrid  thing 
glides  through  the  bush  at  this  moment  as  a 


62  The  Editor 

recognized  part  of  the  scheme  of  the  universe.  The 
child-manuscript  is  rejected ;  it  is  thrown  away ; 
have  we  not  seen  it,  like  a  crumpled  poem,  in  the 
editor's  waste-paper  basket?  How  differently  I 
should  have  acted  had  I  been  editor !  And  then, 
when  I  afterwards  reviewed  my  editorship,  as  I 
to-day  review  that  other  editorship  of  mine,  I 
should  have  seen  that  I  was  wrong.  And  that  reflec- 
tion makes  me  very  thankful  that  I  am  not  the 
editor.  We  shall  yet  come  to  see,  in  spite  of  all 
present  appearances  to  the  contrary,  that  the 
editor  adopted  the  kindest,  wisest,  best  course  with 
each  of  the  manuscripts  presented.  We  shall  see 

That  nothing  walks  with  aimless  feet ; 

That  not  one  life  shall  be  destroyed, 

Or  cast  as  rubbish  to  the  void, 
When  God  hath  made  the  pile  complete ; 

That  not  a  worm  is  cloven  in  vain  ; 
That  not  a  moth  with  vain  desire 
•     Is  shrivelled  hi  a  fruitless  fire, 
Or  but  subserves  another's  gain. 

Everybody  feels  at  liberty  to  criticize  the  Editor ; 
but,  depend  upon  it,  when  all  the  information  is 
before  us  that  is  before  Him,  we  shall  see  that  our 
paltry  judgement  was  very  blind.  And  we  shall 
recognize  with  profound  admiration  that  we  have 
been  living  in  a  most  skilfully  edited  world 


The  Editor  63 

For,  after  all,  that  is  the  point.  The  Editor  knows 
so  much  more  than  I  do.  He  has  eyes  and  ears  in 
the  ends  of  the  earth.  His  sanctum  seems  so  remote 
from  everything,  and  yet  it  is  an  observatory  from 
which  He  beholds  all  the  drama  of  the  world's 
great  throbbing  life.  When  I  was  a  boy  I  was  very 
fond  of  a  contrivance  that  was  called  a  camera- 
obscura.  I  usually  found  it  among  the  attractions 
of  a  seaside  town.  You  paid  a  penny,  entered  a 
room,  and  sat  down  beside  a  round  white  table. 
The  operator  followed,  and  closed  the  door.  The 
place  was  then  in  total  darkness ;  you  could  not  see 
your  hand  before  you.  It  seemed  incredible  that 
in  this  black  hole  one  could  get  a  clearer  view  of  all 
that  was  happening  in  the  neighbourhood  than  was 
possible  out  in  the  sunlight.  Yet,  as  soon  as  the 
lens  above  you  was  opened,  the  whole  scene  appeared 
like  a  moving  coloured  photograph  on  the  white  table. 
The  waves  breaking  on  the  beach ;  the  people  strolling 
on  the  promenade ;  everything  was  faithfully  depicted 
there.  Not  a  dog  could  wag  his  tail  but  there, 
in  the  darkness,  you  saw  him  do  it.  An  observer 
who  watched  you  enter,  and  saw  the  door  close  after 
you,  could  be  certain  that  now,  for  awhile,  you  were 
cut  off  from  everything.  And  yet,  as  a  fact,  you 
only  went  into  the  darkness  that  you  might  see 
the  whole  scene  in  the  more  perfect  perspective. 
What  is  this  but  the  editor's  sanctum?  He  enters 


64  The  Editor 

it  and,  to  all  appearances,  he  leaves  the  world  behind 
him  as  he  does  so.  But  it  is  a  mere  illusion.  He 
enters  it  that  he  may  see  the  whole  world  more 
clearly  from  its  quiet  seclusion. 

In  the  same  way,  when  I  look  round  upon  the 
world,  and  see  the  things  that  are  allowed  to  happen, 
the  Editor  seems  fearfully  aloof.  He  seems  to  have 
gone  into  His  heaven  and  closed  the  door  behind 
Him.  '  Clouds  and  darkness  are  round  about  Him,' 
says  the  psalmist.  And  if  clouds  and  darkness  are 
round  about  Hun,  is  it  any  wonder  that  His  vision 
is  obscure?  If  clouds  and  darkness  are  round 
about  Him,  is  it  any  wonder  that  He  acts  so  strangely  ? 
If  clouds  and  darkness  are  round  about  Him,  is  it 
any  wonder  that  He  rejects  the  child-manuscript 
and  accepts  the  snake-manuscript?  And  yet,  and 
yet ;  what  if  the  darkness  that  envelops  Him  be  the 
darkness  of  the  camera-obscura  ?  The  psalmist 
declares  that  it  is  just  because  clouds  and  darkness 
are  round  about  Him  that  righteousness  and  judge- 
ment are  the  habitation  of  His  throne.  It  is  a 
darkness  that  obscures  Him  from  me  without  in 
the  slightest  degree  concealing  me  from  Him. 

So  there  the  editor  sits  in  his  seclusion.  Nobody 
is  so  unobtrusive.  You  may  read  your  paper,  day 
after  day,  year  in  and  year  out,  without  even  dis- 
covering the  editor's  name.  You  would  not  recognize 
him  if  you  met  him  on  the  street.  He  may  be  young 


The  Editor  65 

or  old,  tall  or  short,  stout  or  slim,  dark  or  fair, 
shabby  or  genteel — you  have  no  idea.  There  is 
something  strangely  mysterious  about  the  elusive 
individuality  of  that  potent  personage  who  every 
day  draws  so  near  to  you,  and  yet  of  whom  you  know 
so  little.  One  of  these  days  I  shall  be  invited  to 
preach  a  special  sermon  to  editors,  and,  in  view  of 
so  dazzling  an  opportunity,  I  have  already  selected 
my  text.  I  shall  speak  of  that  Ideal  Servant  of 
Humanity  of  whom  the  prophet  tells.  '  He  shall 
not  scream,  nor  be  loud,  nor  advertise  Himself/ 
Isaiah  says,  '  but  He  shall  never  break  a  bruised 
reed  nor  quench  a  smouldering  wick.'  That  would 
make  a  great  theme  for  a  sermon  to  editors.  There 
He  is,  so  mysterious  and  yet  so  mighty ;  so  remote 
and  yet  so  omniscient ;  so  invisible  and  yet  so 
eloquent ;  so  slow  to  obtrude  Himself  and  yet  so 
swift  to  discern  any  flickering  spark  of  genius  in 
others.  He  shall  not  advertise  Himself  nor  quench 
a  single  smouldering  wick. 

There  are  two  great  moments  in  the  history  of  a 
manuscript.  The  first  is  the  moment  of  its  prepara- 
tion ;  the  second  is  the  moment  of  its  appearance. 
And  in  between  the  two  comes  the  editor's  censorship 
and  revision.  I  said  just  now  that  I  had  noticed 
that  editorial  emendations  are  almost  invariably 
distinct  improvements.  The  article  as  it  appears  is 
better  than  the  article  as  it  left  my  hands.  Now 


66  The  Editor 

let  me  think.  I  spoke  a  moment  ago  of  the  child- 
manuscript  and  the  snake-manuscript ;  but  what 
about  myself  ?  Am  not  I  too  a  manuscript,  and  shall 
I  not  also  fall  into  the  Editor's  hands  ?  What  about 
all  the  blots,  and  the  smudges,  and  the  erasures, 
and  the  alterations  ?  Will  they  all  be  seen  when  I 
appear,  when  I  appear  1  The  Editor  sees  to  that. 
The  Editor  will  take  care  that  none  of  the  smudges 
on  this  poor  manuscript  shall  be  seen  when  I  appear. 
'  For  we  know,'  says  one  of  the  Editor's  most  intimate 
friends,  '  we  know  that  when  we  appear  we  shall  be 
like  Him — without  spot  or  wrinkle  or  any  such 
thing ! '  It  is  a  great  thing  to  know  that,  before  I 
appear,  I  shall  undergo  the  Editor's  revision. 

Charlie  was  very  excited.  His  father  was  a 
sailor.  The  ship  was  homeward  bound,  and  dad 
would  soon  be  home.  Thinking  so  intently  and 
exclusively  of  his  father's  coming,  Charlie  determined 
to  carve  out  a  ship  of  his  own.  He  took  a  block  of 
wood,  and  set  to  work.  But  the  wood  was  hard, 
and  the  knife  was  blunt,  and  Charlie's  fingers  were 
very  small. 

'  Dad  may  be  here  when  you  wake  up  in  the  morn- 
ing, Charlie  ! '  his  mother  said  to  him  one  night. 

That  night  Charlie  took  his  ship  and  his  knife  to 
bed  with  him.    When  his  father  came  at  midnight 
Charlie  was  fast  asleep,  the  blistered  hand  on  the 
counterpane  not  far  from  the  knife  and  the  ship 


The  Editor  67 

The  father  took  the  ship,  and,  with  his  own  strong 
hand,  and  his  own  sharp  knife,  it  was  soon  a  trim 
and  shapely  vessel.  Charlie  awoke  with  the  lark 
next  morning,  and,  proudly  seizing  his  ship,  he 
ran  to  greet  his  father ;  and  it  is  difficult  to  say  which 
of  the  two  was  the  more  proud  of  it.  It  is  an  infinite 
comfort  to  know  that,  however  blotted  and  blurred 
this  poor  manuscript  may  be  when  I  lay  down  my 
pen  at  night,  the  Editor  will  see  to  it  that  I  have 
nothing  to  be  ashamed  of  when  I  afipear  in  the 
morning. 


VI 

THE  PEACEMAKER 

THINGS  had  come  to  a  pretty  pass  up  at  Corinth, 
when  Paul  felt  it  incumbent  upon  him  to  write  to 
the  members  of  the  Church,  imploring  them  to  be 
reconciled  to  God.  '  Now  then/  Paul  said  to  those 
recalcitrant  believers, '  now  then,  we  are  ambassadors 
for  Christ,  as  though  God  did  beseech  you  by  us, 
we  pray  you,  in  Christ's  stead,  be  ye  reconciled, 
to  God.'  I  used  to  wonder  what  he  can  possibly 
have  meant ;  but  now  I  think  I  understand. 


Claudius  was  wealthy.  He  dwelt  in  a  beautiful 
house  on  the  top  of  a  hill,  on  the  eastern  side  of  the 
city  of  Corinth.  From  his  spacious  balconies  he 
looked  down  upon  the  blue,  blue  waters  of  the 
Adriatic  as  they  lapped  caressingly  the  sands  of  the 
bay  on  the  one  side,  and  on  the  spreading  sapphire  of 
the  island-studded  Aegean  gleaming  most  charmingly 
upon  the  other.  Away  in  the  distance  he  com- 
manded a  magnificent  prospect,  and  could  clearly 
make  out  the  towers  and  domes  of  Athens  as  they 
pierced  the  sky  on  the  far  horizon.  The  Acropolis 
could  be  seen  distinctly.  It  was  a  delightful  home, 

68 


The  Peacemaker  69 

delightfully  situated.  Claudius  was  a  member  of 
the  Church ;  but  he  was  not  very  happy  about  it. 
Claudius  had  prospered  amazingly  of  late  years, 
and  his  prosperity  had  involved  him  in  commercial 
and  social  entanglements  from  which  it  would  be 
very  difficult  now  to  escape.  The  life  that  Claudius 
had  set  before  himself  in  the  early  days  of  his  spiritual 
experience  seemed  to  him  later  on  like  a  beautiful 
dream.  That  is  to  say,  it  seemed  to  him  like  a  dream 
when  he  thought  about  it ;  but  he  did  not  think 
about  it  more  often  than  he  could  help.  Claudius 
knew  perfectly  well  that  the  life  of  which  he  used 
to  dream  was  worth  some  sacrifice ;  and  he  knew 
that  he  was  really  the  poorer,  and  not  the  richer,  for 
having  abandoned  that  radiant  ideal.  He  occasion- 
ally attended  the  assembly  of  worshippers,  it  is  true  ; 
but  he  derived  small  satisfaction  from  the  exercise. 
It  seemed  like  exposing  his  poor  withered,  emaciated 
soul  to  the  limelight ;  and  he  saw  with  a  start  how 
starved  and  famished  it  had  become.  And  so  the 
inner  experience  of  poor  Claudius  became  a  perpetual 
battle-ground.  At  times  the  old  dream  seemed 
within  an  ace  of  being  victorious.  He  was  more 
than  half  inclined  to  break  away  from  all  his  later 
entanglements,  and  to  renew  the  ardour  of  his 
youthful  aspirations.  But  he  had  scarcely  reached 
this  devout  determination  when  the  glamour  of 
his  later  life  once  more  began  to  dazzle  him.  Alluring 


70  The  Peacemaker 

invitations,  temptingly  phrased,  poured  in  upon 
him.  It  is  horrid  to  be  discourteous  !  How  could 
he  bring  himself  to  offend  people  from  whom  he 
had  received  nothing  but  kindness  ?  Surely  a  man 
owes  something  to  the  proprieties  of  life !  And  so 
the  fight  went  on.  But  in  the  depths  of  his  secret 
soul  Claudius  knew  that  that  fight  was  a  fight  between 
Claudius  on  the  one  hand  and  God  on  the  other. 
He  knew,  too,  that  in  that  stern  conflict  Claudius 
was  altogether  wrong,  and  God  was  altogether  right. 
And  he  knew  that,  if  he  persisted  in  the  unequal 
struggle,  nothing  but  shame  and  humiliation  awaited 
him.  Claudius  knew  it,  and  Paul  knew  it.  Paul 
knew  it,  and  proffered  his  good  offices  as  mediator. 
'  Now  then,'  he  wrote,  with  Claudius  in  his  eye, 
'  now  then,  we  are  ambassadors  for  Christ,  as  though 
God  did  beseech  you  by  us,  we  pray  you,  in  Christ's 
stead,  be  ye  reconciled,  to  God'  And  the  words 
brought  to  the  heart  of  poor  Claudius  just  such  a 
surge  of  vehement  emotion  as  a  lover  feels  at  the 
prospect  of  once  more  embracing  the  beloved  form 
with  which  he  had  so  angrily  and  hastily  parted. 

II 

Polonius  and  Phebe  were  in  a  very  different 
case.  Polonius  dwelt  close  to  the  city  in  order  to 
be  near  his  work,  and  his  windows  commanded 
no  view  of  any  kind.  He  was  not  a  slave,  but 


The  Peacemaker  71 

sometimes  he  said  bitterly  that  the  slaves  were  as 
happy  as  he.  The  world  had  gone  hardly  with 
Polonius.  The  stars  in  their  courses  seemed  to  be 
fighting  against  him.  He  had  tried  hard  to  be 
brave,  but  circumstances  sometimes  conspire  against 
courage.  Polonius,  in  spite  of  the  most  commendable 
endeavours,  was  poor ;  yet  if  poverty  had  been  his 
only  misfortune  he  could  have  borne  it  with  a  smile. 
But,  hi  addition  to  poverty,  troubles  came  thick 
and  fast  upon  him.  Like  Claudius,  he  was  a  member 
of  the  church  at  Corinth ;  and  it  was  in  connexion 
with  his  labours  of  love  for  the  sanctuary  that  he 
had  first  met  Phebe.  She  was  young  and  fair  in 
those  days,  and  her  loveliness  was  glorified  by  her 
devotion.  But  his  love  for  her  had  fallen  upon  her 
tender  spirit  like  a  malediction.  It  was  as  though 
his  fondness  for  his  sweet  young  wife  had  woven  a 
malignant  spell  about  her  early  womanhood.  He 
would  have  died  a  thousand  deaths  to  make  her 
happy ;  yet  since  first  they  linked  their  lives  they 
had  known  nothing  but  incessant  struggle  and 
ceaseless  grief.  Phebe  herself  had  been  ill  again 
and  again.  Four  little  children  had  stolen  like 
sunbeams  into  their  home ;  only,  like  sunbeams, 
to  vanish  again,  and  give  place  to  tempests  of  tears. 
Then  came  a  long  blank ;  and  they  fancied  they 
were  doomed  to  spend  the  rest  of  then:  sad  lives 
childlessly.  But,  at  length,  to  their  unspeakable 


72  The  Peacemaker 

delight,  their  little  home  once  more  resounded  with 
the  shout  of  baby  merriment  and  the  patter  of  baby 
footsteps.  It  was  as  if  the  four  children  who  had 
perished  had  bequeathed  to  this  new  treasure  all 
the  affection  that  they  had  excited  in  the  breasts  of 
their  poor  parents.  And  then,  after  seven  happy 
years,  it  too  faded  and  died.  Polonius  and  Phebe 
were  broken-hearted.  Never  again,  they  said,  would 
they  go  to  the  assembly  at  Corinth.  How  could 
they  believe  in  the  love  of  God  after  this?  And 
so  then:  hearts  grew  hard,  and  their  souls  were 
soured,  and  all  sweetness  departed  from  their  spirits. 
There  is  a  story  very  like  this  in  our  own  literature. 
In  the  old  house  at  Kettering,  Andrew  Fuller  was 
lying  ill  in  one  room,  whilst  his  only  surviving 
daughter — a  child  of  six — lay  at  the  point  of  death 
hi  the  next.  He  tried  hard  to  reconcile  himself 
and  his  poor  wife  to  the  impending  calamity. 
But  their  spirits  revolted.  The  thought  that,  after 
having  buried  first  one  child  and  then  another, 
this  one  too  might  be  snatched  from  them  was  more 
than  they  could  bear.  But,  '  on  Tuesday,  May  30,' 
says  Fuller  in  his  diary,  '  on  Tuesday,  May  30,  as 
I  lay  ill  in  bed  in  another  room,  I  heard  a  whispering. 
I  inquired,  and  all  were  silent !  All  were  silent ! — 
but  all  is  well.  /  feel  reconciled  to  God.'  That  is 
a  fine  saying.  '  I  feel  reconciled  to  God.'  But  poor 
Polonius  and  Phebe  could  as  yet  enter  no  such 


The  Peacemaker  73 

brave  words  in  their  domestic  record.  '  Wherefore,' 
writes  Paul,  with  a  thought,  perhaps,  of  Polonius 
and  Phebe,  '  wherefore  we  are  ambassadors  for 
Christ,  as  though  God  did  beseech  you  by  us,  we 
pray  you,  in  Christ's  stead,  be  ye  reconciled  to  God.' 
And  when  Polonius  and  Phebe  heard  that  touching 
appeal  they  resolved  no  longer  to  kick  against  the 
pricks.  '  Renew  my  will/  they  prayed,  anticipating 
the  language  of  a  later  hymn  : 

Renew  my  will  from  day  to  day; 
Blend  it  with  Thine  ;   and  take  away 
All  that  now  makes  it  hard  to  say, 
'  Thy  will  be  done  I ' 

And,  like  Andrew  Fuller  and  his  wife  at  Kettering, 
Polonius  and  his  wife  at  Corinth  were  able  to  say, 
'  /  feel  reconciled  to  God.' 

Ill 

To  the  south  of  Corinth,  just  where  the  great  main 
road  begins  to  ascend  the  ridge  of  the  mountains, 
lived  Julia.  Julia  was  a  widow,  comfortably  cir- 
cumstanced. Her  husband  had  died  years  before, 
leaving  her  with  the  charge  of  their  one  young  son. 
And  as  the  days  had  gone  by,  and  time  had  sprinkled 
strands  of  silver  into  Julia's  hair,  she  had  built  her 
hopes  more  and  more  upon  the  future  of  her  boy. 


74  The  Peacemaker 

Julia's  husband  had  died  before  either  he  or  she  had 
so  much  as  heard  the  name  of  Jesus.  But  after  his 
death  Paul  came  over  from  Athens  to  Corinth  in  the 
course  of  that  first  memorable  visit  to  Europe,  and 
Julia  had  been  among  his  earliest  converts.  After 
her  conversion  Julia  often  thought  of  her  husband, 
and  was  ill  at  ease.  But,  like  a  wise  woman,  she 
determined  to  work  for  the  things  that  remained 
rather  than  to  weep  over  those  that  were  lost  to  her. 
And  so  she  devoted  all  her  love,  and  all  her  thought, 
and  all  her  energy,  and  all  her  time  to  her  little  son. 
When  Paul's  first  letter  to  the  Christians  at  Corinth 
was  read  to  the  church,  she  caught  a  phrase  about 
being  'baptized  for  the  dead.'  She  did  not  quite 
know  what  Paul  meant  by  the  words ;  but  at  any 
rate  she  would  try  to  instil  into  the  heart  of  her  boy 
the  lovely  faith  that  she  felt  certain  her  husband 
would  cheerfully  have  embraced.  And  wonderfully 
she  succeeded.  The  boy  listened  with  eyes  wide 
open  to  the  tender  stories  that  Julia  told  him,  and 
his  heart  acknowledged  their  profound  significance. 
At  the  same  age  at  which  Jesus  went  with  Mary  to 
the  Temple,  and  was  found  in  the  midst  of  the 
doctors,  young  Amplius  went  with  Julia  up  to  the 
church  at  Corinth,  and  was  found  in  the  midst  of 
the  deacons. 

From  the  very  first  the  soul  of  Amplius  prospered. 
He  was  like  those  trees  of  which  the  psalmist  sings 


The  Peacemaker  75 

which,  '  planted  in  the  courts  of  the  Lord,  flourish  in 
the  house  of  our  God.'  From  the  time  of  his  baptism 
and  reception  into  the  sacred  fellowship,  the  child 
Amplius  grew,  like  the  child  Jesus,  and  waxed  strong 
in  spirit,  filled  with  wisdom,  and  the  grace  of  God 
was  upon  him.  Then,  after  about  six  years  of  happy 
Christian  experience,  Amplius  confided  a  wonderful 
secret  to  Julia.  He  told  her  that  he  had  resolved, 
with  her  consent,  to  devote  himself  to  the  sacred 
office  of  the  ministry.  And  at  that  word  the  soul 
of  Julia  died  within  her.  She  knew  what  those 
early  preachers  and  teachers  had  suffered.  She 
knew  of  the  martyrdom  of  all  those  first  apostles. 
S'le  had  heard  that  even  Paul  himself  had  been  '  in 
journeyings  often,  in  perils  of  rivers  and  in  perils 
of  robbers,  in  perils  by  his  own  countrymen  and 
in  perils  of  the  heathen,  in  perils  of  the  city  and  in 
perils  of  the  desert,  in  perils  of  the  sea  and  in  perils 
among  false  brethren/  And  Julia's  heart  failed 
her  as  she  thought  of  Amplius  faced  by  such  dangers. 
Moreover,  Julia  had  other  plans  for  Amplius.  She 
had  fondly  dreamed  of  him  as  holding  a  great  place 
in  the  city  of  Corinth.  When  she  had  seen  rulers  and 
governors  performing  exalted  functions  on  State 
occasions,  she  had  said  within  herself,  '  Some  day, 
perhaps,  Amplius  will  wear  those  robes,'  or  'Some 
day,  perhaps,  Amplius  will  make  that  speech.' 
And  now  all  such  dreams  were  rudely  shattered. 


76  The  Peacemaker 

Her  son  would  fain  be  a  minister,  an  outcast,  perhaps 
even  a  martyr.  And  at  that  thought  the  soul  of 
Julia  rebelled,  and  she  began  to  fight  against  God. 

There  is  a  case  like  this,  also,  in  our  own  literature. 
Grey  Hazelrigg  was  the  only  child  of  Lady  Hazelrigg, 
of  Carlton  Hall.  Her  ladyship  intended  her  son  for 
the  army,  but  he  failed  to  pass  the  tests.  She  then 
sent  him  to  Cambridge  University.  There  he  came 
under  deep  religious  influences.  He  began,  as 
opportunities  presented  themselves,  to  preach  the 
gospel.  His  efforts  met  with  immediate  acceptance, 
and  he  wrote  to  his  astonished  mother  to  say  that 
he  desired  to  become  a  minister  of  the  old  Strict 
Baptist  Communion !  The  request  struck  Carlton 
Hall  like  a  thunderbolt,  and  the  spirit  of  Lady 
Hazelrigg  rose  in  instant  revolt.  But  Grey  prayed 
in  secret,  and  preached  in  public,  and  pleaded  with 
his  mother  whenever  a  suitable  opportunity  occurred. 
Then  came  an  experience  of  which,  the  Rev.  W.  Y. 
Fullerton  says,  he  spoke  with  sparkling  eyes  seventy 
years  afterwards.  He  was  on  a  journey  when  his 
mind  was  suddenly  and  strangely  arrested  by  the 
words  of  Jeremiah,  '  Verily,  it  shall  be  well  with 
Thy  remnant.'  He  took  it  to  refer  to  Lady  Hazel- 
rigg's  opposition  to  his  call ;  and,  surely  enough, '  the 
very  next  letter  that  he  received  from  his  mother 
bore  the  joyful  tidings  that  she  was,  as  she  herself 
phrased  it,  reconciled  to  God.'  Mr.  Grey  Hazelrigg 


The  Peacemaker  77 

fived  to  be  nearly  a  hundred,  and  his  work,  both  as 
a  writer  and  a  preacher,  will  be  remembered  in 
England  with  thankfulness  for  many  a  day  to  come. 
There  can  be  no  doubt,  therefore,  that,  in  those 
earlier  days,  Lady  Hazelrigg  was  fighting  against 
God.  And  there  can  be  no  doubt,  either,  that,  in 
those  early  days,  Julia  was  righting  against  God. 
And  therefore  Paul  wrote  as  he  did,  perhaps  with 
Julia  specially  in  mind.  '  Now  then,'  he  said,  '  we 
are  ambassadors  for  Christ,  as  though  God  did 
beseech  you  by  us,  we  pray  you,  in  Christ's  stead, 
be  ye  reconciled  to  God.'  And,  like  Lady  Hazelrigg, 
Julia  made  her  peace  with  God,  and  her  son  adorned 
the  Christian  ministry  for  many  a  long  day. 


IV 


'  Be  ye  reconciled  to  God ' — Paul  the  Peacemaker 
wrote  to  the  Christians  at  Corinth.  It  is  vastly 
important.  We  so  easily  drift  away  from  early 
attachments  and  early  friendships ;  and  even  the 
divine  friendship  is  not  immune  from  this  cruel  and 
heartless  treatment.  We  drift  away  from  it,  and 
must  needs  be  reconciled.  '  Be  ye  reconciled  to  God,' 
says  Paul  the  Peacemaker  '  for  unless  you  yourselves 
are  reconciled  to  God,  how  can  you  reconcile  to  God 
those  who  are  without  ? '  How  can  I  reconcile  hearts 
that  are  alienated  if,  between  either  of  those  hearts 


/8  The  Peacemaker 

and  mine,  there  exists  some  embarrassing  estrange- 
ment ?  '  Be  ye  reconciled  to  God,'  said  Paul  the 
Peacemaker  to  the  church  at  Corinth,  for  he  knew 
that  the  Church's  ministry  of  reconciliation  would 
stand  stultified  and  useless  so  long  as  the  Church 
herself  was  out  of  touch  with  her  Lord. 


VII 

NOTHING 

NATURE,  they  say,  abhors  a  vacuum.  For  the  life 
of  me,  I  do  not  know  why.  But  then,  for  the  matter 
of  that,  I  do  not  know  why  I  myself  love  many 
of  the  things  that  I  love,  and  loathe  many  of  the 
things  that  I  abhor.  Nature,  however,  is  not  usually 
capricious.  Some  deep  policy  generally  prompts 
her  strange  behaviour.  I  must  go  into  this  matter 
a  little  more  carefully.  First  of  all,  what  is  a 
vacuum?  What  is  Nothing? 

I  was  at  a  prize  distribution  not  long  ago,  and  as 
I  came  out  into  the  street  I  came  upon  a  little  chap 
crying  as  though  his  heart  would  break.  He  was 
quite  alone.  His  parents  had  not  thought  it  worth 
their  while  to  accompany  him  to  the  function,  and 
thus  show  their  interest  in  his  school  life.  Perhaps 
it  was  owing  to  the  same  lack  of  sympathy  on  their 
part  that  he  was  among  the  few  boys  who  were 
bearing  home  no  prize. 

'  Hullo,  sonny,'  I  exclaimed, '  what's  the  matter  ?  ' 

'  Oh,  nothing  I '  he  replied,  between  his  sobs. 

'  Then  what  on  earth  are  you  crying  for  ?  ' 

'  Oh,  nothing  !  '  he  repeated. 

79 


8o  Nothing 

I  respected  his  delicacy,  and  probed  no  farther 
into  the  cause  of  his  discomfiture,  but  I  had  collected 
further  evidence  of  my  contention  that  there  is 
more  in  Nothing  than  you  would  suppose.  Nor 
had  I  gone  far  before  still  further  corroboration 
greeted  me.  For,  at  the  top  of  the  street,  I  came 
upon  a  group  of  lads  in  the  centre  of  which  was  a 
boy  with  a  very  handsome  prize.  I  paused  and 
admired  it. 

'  And  what  was  this  for  ?  '  I  asked. 

'  Oh,  nothing  ! '  he  answered,  with  a  blush 

'  But,  my  dear  fellow,  you  must  have  done  some- 
thing to  deserve  it ! ' 

'  Oh,  it  was  nothing ! '  he  reiterated,  and  it  was 
from  his  companions  that  I  obtained  the  information 
that  I  sought.  But  here  again  it  was  made  clear 
to  me  that  there  is  a  good  deal  in  Nothing.  Nothing 
is  worth  thinking  about.  It  is  a  huge  mistake  to 
take  things  at  their  face  value.  Nothing  may  some- 
times represent  a  modest  contrivance  for  hiding 
everything ;  and  we  must  not  allow  ourselves  to 
be  deceived. 

An  old  tradition  assures  us  that,  on  the  sudden 
death  of  one  of  Frederick  the  Great's  chaplains, 
a  certain  candidate  showed  himself  most  eager  for 
the  vacant  post.  The  king  told  him  to  proceed  to 
the  royal  chapel  and  to  preach  an  impromptu  sermon 
on  a  text  that  he  would  find  in  the  pulpit  on  arrival. 


Nothiiig  Si 

"When  the  critical  moment  arrived,  the  preacher 
opened  the  sealed  packet,  and  found  it — blank ! 
Not  a  word  or  pen-mark  appeared !  With  a  calm 
smile  the  clergyman  cast  his  eyes  over  the  congrega- 
tion, and  then  said,  '  Brethren,  here  is  Nothing. 
Blessed  is  he  whom  Nothing  can  annoy,  whom 
Nothing  can  make  afraid  or  swerve  from  his  duty. 
We  read  that  God  from  Nothing  made  all  things. 
And  yet  look  at  the  stupendous  majesty  of  His 
infinite  creation !  And  does  not  Job  tell  us  that 
Nothing  is  the  foundation  of  everything ?  "He 
hangeth  the  world  upon  Nothing,"  the  patriarch 
declares.'  The  candidate  then  proceeded  to  elab- 
orate the  wonder  and  majesty  of  that  creation  that 
emanated  from  Nothing,  and  depended  on  Nothing 
I  need  scarcely  add  that  Frederick  bestowed  upon 
so  ingenious  a  preacher  the  vacant  chaplaincy.  And 
in  the  years  that  followed  he  became  one  of  the 
monarch's  most  intimate  friends  and  most  trusted 
advisers. 

We  must  not,  however,  fly  to  the  opposite  extreme, 
and  make  too  much  of  Nothing.  For  the  odd  thing 
is  that,  twice  at  least  in  her  strange  and  chequered 
history,  the  Church  has  fallen  in  love  with  members 
of  the  Nothing  family,  and,  after  the  fashion  of 
lovers,  has  completely  lost  her  head  over  them. 
On  the  first  occasion  she  became  deeply  enamoured 
of  Doing  Nothing,  and  on  the  second  occasion 

F 


82  Nothing 

she  went  crazy  over  Having-Nothing.  I  must  tell 
of  these  amorous  exploits  one  at  a  time.  The  adora- 
tion of  Doing-Nothing  had  a  great  vogue  at  one 
stage  of  the  Church's  history.  Who  that  has  once 
read  the  thirty-seventh  chapter  of  Gibbon's  Decline 
and  Fall — the  chapter  on  '  The  Origin,  Progress, 
and  Effects  of  the  Monastic  Life ' — will  ever  cease 
to  be  haunted  by  the  weird,  fantastic  spectacle 
therein  presented  ?  Men  suddenly  took  it  into  their 
heads  that  the  only  way  of  serving  God  was  by  doing 
nothing.  They  swarmed  out  into  the  deserts,  and 
lived  solitary  lives.  They  took  vows  of  perpetual 
silence,  and  ceased  to  speak ;  they  ate  only  the  most 
disgusting  food ;  they  lived  the  lives  of  wild  beasts. 
'  Even  sleep,  the  last  refuge  of  the  unhappy,  was 
rigorously  measured  ;  the  vacant  hours  rolled  heavily 
on,  without  business  and  without  pleasure ;  and, 
before  the  close  of  each  day,  the  tedious  progress 
of  the  sun  was  repeatedly  accursed.'  Here  was  an 
amazing  phenomenon.  It  was,  of  course,  only  a 
passing  fancy,  the  merest  piece  of  coquetry  on  the 
Church's  part.  It  is  unthinkable  that  she  thought 
seriously  of  Doing-Nothing,  and  of  settling  down 
with  him  for  the  rest  of  her  natural  life.  The  glamour 
of  this  casual  flirtation  soon  wore  off.  The  Church 
discovered  to  her  mortification  that  there  was  nothing 
in  Nothing.  Saint  Anthony,  of  Alexandria,  who  felt 
that  the  life  of  the  city  was  too  full  of  incitement  to 


Nothing  83 

frivolity  and  pleasure,  fled  to  the  desert,  to  escape 
from  these  temptations.  He  became  a  hermit. 
But  he  gave  it  up,  and  returned  to  Alexandria. 
The  abominable  imaginations  that  haunted  his 
mind  in  the  solitude  were  far  more  loathsome  and 
degrading  than  anything  he  had  experienced  in 
the  busy  city.  Fra  Angelico,  who  also  fell  in  love 
with  Doing-Nothing,  says  that  he  heard  the  flapping 
of  the  wings  of  unclean  things  about  his  lonely  cell. 
And  Francis  Xavier  has  told  us  of  the  seven  terrible 
days  that  he  spent  in  the  tomb  of  Thomas  at  Malabar. 
'  All  around  me,'  he  says,  '  malignant  devils  prowled 
incessantly,  and  wrestled  with  me  with  invisible 
but  obscene  hands.'  It  is  the  old  story,  there  is 
nothing  in  Nothing ;  and  he  who  falls  in  love  with 
any  member  of  that  family  will  live  to  regret  the 
adventure.  I  remember  being  greatly  impressed 
by  a  sentence  or  two  in  Nansen's  Farthest  North. 
He  is  describing  the  maddening  monotony  of  the 
interminable  Arctic  night.  '  Ah ! '  he  exclaims 
suddenly,  '  life's  peace  is  said  to  be  found  by  holy 
men  in  the  desert.  Here  indeed  is  desert  enough ; 
but  'peace  I — of  that  I  know  nothing.  I  suppose 
it  is  the  holiness  that  is  lacking.'  The  explorer 
was  simply  discovering  that  there  is  nothing  in 
Nothing  but  what  you  yourself  take  into  it. 

One  would  have  supposed  that,  after  this  heart- 
breaking  affair   with   Doing-Nothing,    the   Church 


84  Nothing 

would  have  been  on  her  guard  against  all  members 
of  the  Nothing  family.  But  no  !  she  was  deceived  a 
second  time — in  this  instance  by  the  wiles  of  Having- 
Nothing.  I  allude,  of  course,  to  the  story  of  the 
Mendicant  Orders.  We  all  know  how  Francis 
d'Assisi  fell  in  love  with  Poverty.  One  day,  to 
the  consternation  of  his  friends,  they  received  a 
letter  from  the  gay  young  soldier,  telling  them  of 
his  intention  to  lead  an  entirely  new  life.  '  I  am 
thinking  of  taking  a  wife  more  beautiful,  more  rich, 
more  pure  than  you  could  ever  imagine.'  The  wife 
was  the  Lady  Poverty ;  and  Giotto,  in  a  fresco  at 
Assisi,  has  represented  Francis  placing  the  ring  on 
the  finger  of  his  bride.  The  feminine  figure  is 
crowned  with  roses,  but  she  is  arrayed  in  rags,  and 
her  feet  are  bruised  with  stones  and  torn  with 
briars.  Francis  borrowed  the  tattered  and  filthy 
garments  of  a  beggar,  and  sought  alms  at  the  street 
corners  that  he  might  enter  into  the  secret  of  poverty ; 
and  then  he  and  Dominic  founded  those  orders  of 
mendicant  monks  which  became  one  of  the  most 
potent  missionary  forces  of  the  Middle  Ages. 

But  once  again  the  Church  found  out  that  her 
affections  were  being  played  with.  There  is  no 
more  virtue  in  Having-Nothing  than  in  Doing- 
Nothing.  They  are  both  good-for-nothing.  It  may 
be  that  some  of  us  would  be  better  men  if  we  had  less 
money ;  but  then,  others  of  us  would  be  better  men 


Nothing  85 

if  we  had  more.  It  may  be  that,  here  and  there, 
you  may  find  a  Silas  Marner  who  has  been  saved  by 
sudden  poverty  from  miserly  greed  and  hardening 
self-absorption.  But,  for  one  such  case,  it  would 
be  easy  to  point  to  hundreds  of  men  who  have  been 
driven  by  poverty  from  the  ways  of  honour,  and  to 
hundreds  of  women  who  have  been  forced  by  poverty 
from  the  paths  of  virtue.  It  all  comes  back  to  this  : 
there  is  nothing  in  Nothing.  Doing-Nothing  and 
Having-Nothing  are  deceivers — the  pair  of  them ; 
and  the  Church  must  not  be  beguiled  by  their  blan- 
dishments. Work  and  money  are  both  good  things. 
Even  William  Law  saw  that.  His  Serious  Call 
has  often  almost  made  a  monk  of  me,  but  a  sudden 
flash  of  common  sense  always  breaks  from  the  page 
just  in  time.  'There  are  two  things,'  he  says  in 
his  fine  chapter  on  '  The  Wise  and  Pious  Use  of  an 
Estate/  '  there  are  two  things  which,  of  all  others, 
most  want  to  be  under  a  strict  rule,  and  which  are 
the  greatest  blessings  both  to  ourselves  and  others, 
when  they  are  rightly  used.  These  two  things  are 
our  time  and  our  money.  These  talents  are  the 
continual  means  and  opportunities  of  doing  good.' 
Beware,  that  is  to  say,  of  Doing-Nothing,  of  Having- 
Nothing,  and  of  the  whole  family  of  Nothings. 
It  is  not  for  nothing  that  Nature  abhors  them. 

And  now  it  suddenly  comes  home  to  me  that  I 
am   playing   on  the   very  verge   of  a   tremendous 


86  Nothing 

truth.  There  is  nothing  in  Nothing.  Let  me 
remember  that  when  next  I  am  at  death-grips 
with  temptation !  Cupid  is  said  to  have  com- 
plained to  Jupiter  that  he  could  never  seize  the 
Muses  because  he  could  never  find  them  idle. 
And  I  suppose  that  our  everyday  remark  that 
'  Satan  finds  some  mischief  still  for  idle  hands  to 
do '  has  its  origin  in  the  same  idea.  John  Locke, 
the  great  philosopher,  used  to  say  that,  in  the  hour 
of  temptation,  he  preferred  any  company  rather  than 
his  own.  If  possible,  he  sought  the  companionship 
of  children.  Anything  rather  than  Nothing.  It 
reminds  us  of  Hannibal.  The  great  Carthaginian 
led  his  troops  up  the  Alpine  passes,  but  he  found  that 
the  heights  were  strongly  held  by  the  Romans. 
Attack  was  out  of  the  question.  Hannibal  watched 
closely  one  night,  however,  and  discovered  that, 
under  cover  of  darkness,  the  enemy  withdrew  for 
the  night  to  the  warmer  valley  on  the  opposite  slope. 
Next  night,  therefore,  Hannibal  led  his  troops  to  the 
heights,  and,  when  the  Roman  general  approached 
in  the  morning,  he  found  that  the  tables  had  been 
turned  upon  him.  There  is  always  peril  in  vacancy. 
The  uncultivated  garden  brings  forth  weeds.  The 
unoccupied  mind  becomes  the  devil's  playground. 
The  vacant  soul  is  a  lost  soul.  There  is  nothing  in 
Nothing. 
But  for  the  greatest  illustration  of  my  present 


Nothing  87 

theme  I  must  betake  me  to  Mark  Rutherford.  The 
incident  occurred  at  the  most  sunless  and  joyless 
stage  of  Mark's  career  From  all  his  wretchedness 
he  sought  relief  in  Nothing  He  kept  his  own 
company,  wandered  about  the  fields,  abandoned 
himself  to  moods,  and  lost  himself  in  vague  and 
insoluble  problems.  But  one  day  a  strange  thing 
happened.  '  I  was  walking  along  under  the  south 
side  of  a  hill,  which  was  a  great  place  for  butterflies, 
when  I  saw  a  man,  apparently  about  fifty  years  old, 
coming  along  with  a  butterfly  net.'  They  soon 
chummed  up.  '  He  told  me  that  he  had  come  seven 
miles  that  morning  to  that  spot,  because  he  knew  that 
it  was  haunted  by  one  particular  species  of  butterfly  ; 
and,  as  it  was  a  still,  bright  day,  he  hoped  to  find  a 
specimen.'  At  first  Mark  Rutherford  felt  a  kind  of 
contempt  for  a  man  who  could  give  himself  up  to  so 
childish  a  pastime.  But,  later  on,  he  heard  his  story. 
Years  before  he  had  married  a  delicate  girl,  of  whom 
he  was  devotedly  fond.  She  died  in  childbirth, 
leaving  him  completely  broken.  And,  by  some 
inscrutable  mystery  of  fate,  the  child  grew  up  to  be 
a  cripple,  horribly  deformed,  inexpressibly  hideous, 
as  ugly  as  an  ape,  as  lustful  as  a  satyr,  and  as  ferocious 
as  a  tiger !  The  son,  after  many  years,  died  in  a 
mad-house  ;  and  the  horror  of  it  all  nearly  consigned 
his  poor  father  to  a  similar  asylum.  '  During  those 
dark  days,'  he  told  Mark  Rutherford,  '  I  went  on 


88  Nothing 

gazing  gloomily  into  dark  emptiness,  till  all  life  became 
nothing  for  me.'  Gazing  into  emptiness,  mark  you  ! 
Then  there  swept  across  this  aching  void  of  nothing- 
ness a  beautiful  butterfly  !  It  caught  his  fancy, 
interested  him,  rilled  the  gap,  and  saved  his  reason 
from  uttermost  collapse.  He  began  collecting  butter- 
flies. He  was  no  longer  gazing  into  emptiness. 
And  the  moral  of  the  incident  is  stated  in  a  single 
sentence.  '  Men  should  not  be  too  curious  in 
analysing  and  condemning  any  means  which  Nature 
devises  to  save  them  from  themselves,  whether  it  be 
coins,  old  books,  curiosities,  fossils,  or  butterflies.' 

'  Any  means  which  Nature  devises.'  We  are 
back  to  Nature  again. 

'  Nature  abhors  a  vacuum ' ;  it  was  at  that  point 
that 'we  set  out. 

I  see  now  that  Nature  is  right,  after  all.  I  can 
never  be  saved  by  Nothing.  The  abstract  will 
never  satisfy  me.  I  want  something ;  aye,  more, 
I  want  Some  One  ;  and  until  I  find  Him  my  restless 
soul  calls  down  all  the  echoing  corridors  of  Nothing- 
ness, '  Oh  that  I  knew  where  I  might  find  Him  1 ' 


VIII 
THE  ANGEL  AND  THE  IRON  GATE 

IT  is  of  no  use  arguing  against  an  iron  gate.  There 
it  stands — chained  and  padlocked,  barred  and  bolted 
— right  across  your  path,  and  you  can  neither  coax 
nor  cow  it  into  yielding.  So  was  it  with  Peter  on  the 
night  of  his  miraculous  escape  from  prison.  '  Herod,' 
we  are  told,  '  killed  James  with  the  sword,  and, 
because  he  saw  that  it  pleased  the  Jews,  he  proceeded 
to  take  Peter  also.'  There  he  lay,  '  sleeping  between 
two  soldiers,  bound  with  chains,  whilst  the  keepers 
before  the  door  kept  the  prison.'  He  expected 
that  his  next  visitor  would  be  the  headsman ; 
and  whilst  he  waited  for  the  executioner,  there 
came  an  angel !  This  sort  of  thing  happens 
fairly  often.  They  are  sitting  round  the  fire, 
and  the  lady  in  the  arm-chair  is  talking  of  her 
sailor-son. 

'  Ah  ! '  she  says,  '  I  haven't  heard  of  him  for  over 
a  year  now,  and  I  begin  to  think  that  I  shall  never 
hear  again.' 

There  is  a  sharp  ring  at  the  bell.     She  starts. 

'  Something  tells  me,'  she  continues,  '  that  this 
89 


go  The  Angel  and  the  Iron  Gate 

is  a  message  to  say  that  the  ship  is  lost,  and  that 
I  shall  never  see  my  boy  again.' 

Even  whilst  she  speaks  the  door  is  opened,  and 
her  last  syllable  is  scarcely  uttered  before  she  is 
folded  in  the  sailor's  arms. 

The  principle  holds  true  to  the  very  end.  It 
is  a  sick-room,  and  the  pale  wan  face  of  the  patient 
looks  very  weary. 

'  Oh,  how  I  dread  death ! '  she  says ;  '  I  cannot 
bear  to  think  that  I  must  die.' 

An  hour  later  the  door  of  the  unseen  opens  to  her, 
and  there  stands  on  the  threshold,  not  Death,  but 
Life  Everlasting  \ 

Peter  very,  very  often  waits  for  the  executioner, 
and  welcomes  an  angel. 

I 

During  the  next  few  moments  Peter  scarcely 
knew  whether  he  was  in  the  body  or  out  of  the  body. 
Was  he  alive  or  was  he  dead?  Was  he  waking  or 
was  he  dreaming  ?  '  He  wist  not  that  it  was  true 
which  was  done  by  the  angel,  but  thought  he  saw 
a  vision.'  He  walked  like  a  man  with  his  head 
in  the  clouds.  Doors  were  opening ;  chains  were 
falling ;  he  seemed  to  be  living  in  a  land  of  enchant- 
ment, a  world  of  magic.  But  the  iron  gate  put  an 
end  to  all  illusion.  '  They  came  to  the  iron  gate,' 
and,  as  I  said  a  moment  ago,  an  iron  gate  is  a  very 


The  Angel  and  the  Iron  Gate  91 

difficult  thing  to  argue  with.  The  iron  gate  repre- 
sents the  return  to  reality.  After  our  most  radiant 
spiritual  experiences  we  come  abruptly  to  the 
humdrum  and  the  commonplace.  It  was  Mary's 
Sunday  evening  out.  Mary,  you  must  know,  is  a 
housemaid  in  a  big  boarding  establishment,  and  her 
life  is  by  no  means  an  easy  one.  But  Mary  is  also 
a  member  of  the  Church.  On  Sunday  she  was  in 
her  favourite  seat.  Perhaps  it  was  that  she  was 
specially  hungry  for  some  uplifting  word,  or  perhaps 
it  was  that  the  message  was  peculiarly  suitable  to 
her  condition  ;  but,  be  that  as  it  may,  the  service  that 
night  seemed  to  carry  poor  Mary  to  the  very  gate 
of  heaven.  The  Communion  Service  that  followed 
completed  her  ecstasy,  and  Mary  seemed  scarcely 
to  touch  the  pavement  with  her  feet  as  she  hurried 
home.  She  fell  asleep  crooning  to  herself  the  hymn 
with  which  the  service  closed : 

0  Love,  that  will  not  let  me  go, 

1  rest  my  weary  soul  in  Thee  ; 
I  give  Thee  back  the  life  I  owe, 
That  in  Thine  ocean  depths  its  flow 

May  richer,  fuller  be. 

She  knew  nothing  more  until,  in  the  chilly  dark  o, 
the  morning,  the  alarum  clock  screamed  at  her  to 
jump  up,  clean  the  cold  front  steps,  dust  the  great 
sileat  rooms,  and  light  the  copper-fire.  '  And  she 


92  The  Angel  and  the  Iron  Gate 

came  to  the  iron  gate.'  There  come  points  in  life 
at  which  poetry  merges  into  the  severest  prose ; 
romance  yields  to  reality;  the  miracle  of  the  open 
prison  is  succeeded  by  the  menace  of  the  iron  gate. 

II 

As  long  as  Peter  had  an  iron  gate  before  him, 
he  had  an  angel  beside  him.  It  was  not  until  the 
iron  gate  had  been  safely  negotiated  that '  forthwith 
the  angel  departed  from  him.'  Mary  made  a  mistake 
when  she  fancied  that  she  had  left  all  the  glory  behind 
her.  The  angel  is  with  us  more  often  than  we  think. 
A  devout  Jew,  in  bidding  you  farewell,  will  always 
use  a  plural  pronoun.  And  if  you  ask  for  whom, 
besides  yourself,  his  blessing  is  intended,  he  will 
reply  that  it  is  for  you  and  for  the  angel  over  your 
shoulder.  We  are  too  fond  of  fancying  that  the 
angel  is  only  with  us  when  the  chains  are  miraculously 
falling  from  off  our  feet,  and  when  the  doors  are 
miraculously  opening  before  our  faces.  We  are  too 
slow  to  believe  that  the  angel  is  still  by  our  side 
when  we  emerge  into  the  night  and  come  to  the 
iron  gate.  It  is  a  very  ancient  heathen  superstition. 
'  There  came  a  man  of  God,  and  spake  unto  the 
king  of  Israel,  and  said,  Thus  saith  the  Lord,  because 
the  Syrians  have  said,  "  The  Lord  is  God  of  the 
hills,  but  He  is  not  God  of  the  valleys,"  therefore 
will  I  deliver  all  this  great  multitude  into  thine  hand, 


The  Angel  and  the  Iron  Gate  93 

and  ye  shalj  know  that  I  am  the  Lord.'  We  are 
always  assuming  that  He  is  the  God  of  the  mountain- 
tops,  and  that  He  leaves  us  to  thread  the  darksome 
valleys  alone ;  and  our  assumption  is  a  cruel  and 
unjust  one.  As  long  as  Peter  had  an  iron  gate 
before  him,  he  had  an  angel  beside  him. 

Ill 

The  converse,  however,  is  equally  true.  As  long 
as  Peter  had  an  angel  beside  him,  he  had  an  iron 
gate  ahead  of  him.  Angels  do  not  walk  by  our 
sides  for  fun.  '  Are  they  not  all  ministering  spirits, 
sent  forth  to  minister  for  them  who  shall  be  heirs 
of  salvation  ?  '  If  there  is  an  angel  by  my  side, 
depend  upon  it,  there  is  work  that  only  an  angel  can 
do  in  front  of  me.  Mary's  radiant  experience  that 
Sunday  evening  was  directly  and  intimately  related 
with  the  brazen  yell  of  the  alarum  clock  on  Monday 
morning.  It  was  not  intended  as  a  mere  temporary 
elevation  of  the  spirit,  but  as  an  assurance  of  a 
gracious  presence — a  presence  that  should  never 
be  withdrawn  as  long  as  a  need  existed.  It  is  part 
of  the  infinite  pathos  of  life  that  we  misinterpret 
our  visions.  Jacob  beheld  his  staircase  leading 
from  earth  to  heaven,  with  angels  ascending  and 
descending  upon  it.  And  straightway,  as  he  pre- 
pared to  leave,  he  began  to  say  good-bye  to  the 
angels !  '  Surely,'  he  exclaimed,  '  the  Lord  is 


94  The  Angel  and  the  Iron  Gate 

in  this  place  \  How  dreadful  is  this  place  \  This 
is  none  other  but  the  house  of  God,  and  this  is  the 
gate  of  heaven !  And  he  called  the  name  of  that 
place  Bethel ! '  And  thus  he  missed  the  whole 
meaning  of  the  beatific  vision.  The  vision  was  to 
warn  him  of  the  perils  that  awaited  him,  and  to 
assure  him  that  '  behold,  I  am  with  thee  in  all 
places  whither  thou  goest.' 

'  All  places  1 '  said  the  Vision. 

'  This  place !  this  place!  THIS  PLACE  ! '  said  Jacob. 

And  so  he  journeyed  on  towards  his  iron  gate, 
pitifully  ignorant  of  the  meaning  of  the  golden 
dream.  Life's  ecstasies  are  warnings,  premonitions, 
danger-signals.  Even  in  the  experience  of  the 
Holiest,  the  open  heavens  and  the  voice  from  the 
excellent  glory  immediately  preceded  the  grim 
struggle  with  the  tempter  in  the  wilderness.  Paul 
had  his  vision ;  he  saw  the  Man  of  Macedonia ; 
and  he  followed  the  gleam — to  bonds,  stripes,  and 
imprisonment.  Bunyan  knew  what  he  was  doing 
when  he  placed  the  Palace  Beautiful,  with  all  its 
sweet  hospitalities  and  delightful  ministries,  imme- 
diately before  that  dark  Valley  of  Humiliation  in 
which  Christian  struggled  with  Apollyon.  When  we 
hear  angels'  voices  speaking,  when  .we  find  our 
fetters  falling,  when  we  see  our  jail  doors  opening, 
be  very  sure  that  outside,  outside,  there  is  a  dark 
night  and  an  iron  gate  1 


The  Angel  and  the  Iron  Gate  95 

IV 

But  there  is  always  this  about  it.  Although  the 
radiant  vision  is  a  premonition  of  the  coming  struggle, 
it  is  also  an  augury  concerning  that  struggle.  Opening 
doors  are  an  earnest  of  opening  gates.  It  is  incon- 
ceivable that  I  shall  be  miraculously  delivered  from 
my  dungeon,  with  its  guards  and  its  chains,  and 
then  be  baulked  by  an  iron  gate  out  there  in  the 
blackness  of  the  night.  It  is  inconceivable  that  here, 
at  the  Communion  Service,  God  should  draw  so 
near  to  the  spirit  of  this  young  housemaid,  and  then 
leave  her  to  face  alone  the  drudgery  of  Monday 
morning.  If  Mary  is  half  as  wise  as  I  take  her  to 
be,  she  will  answer  the  scream  of  the  clock  with  a 
song.  She  went  to  bed  singing ;  why  not  get  up 
singing?  She  crooned  to  herself  on  retiring  the 
hymn  that  had  followed  her  from  the  Communion 
Table.  Let  her  sing  in  the  morning  quite  another 
tune : 

His  love,  in  time  past,  forbids  me  to  thin 

He'll  leave  me  at  last  in  trouble  to  sink, 

Each  sweet  Ebenezer  I  have  in  review 

Confirms  His  good  pleasure  to  help  me  quite  through. 

The  voice  of  the  angel,  the  falling  of  fetters,  and  the 
opening  of  doors  are  all  designed  to  brace  us  for 
the  dark  night  and  the  iron  gate. 


96  The  Angel  and  the  Iron  Gate 


'  The  iron  gate  opened  to  them.'  Of  course  it  did. 
Who  could  suppose  that  the  prison  doors  had  been 
opened  by  angel's  hands,  only  that  the  prisoner 
might  be  caught  like  a  rat  in  a  trap  outside  ?  '  The 
iron  gate  opened  to  them  of  its  own  accord.'  It  did 
look  like  it.  During  my  twelve  years  at  Mosgiel, 
I  often  went  through  the  great  woollen  factory. 
The  machines  were  marvellous — simply  marvellous. 
As  you  watched  the  needles  slip  in  and  out,  or  stood 
beside  the  loom  and  saw  the  pattern  grow,  it  really 
looked  as  though  the  things  were  bewitched.  They 
seemed  to  be  doing  it  all  '  of  their  own  accord.' 
But  one  day  the  manager  said,  '  Would  you  care  to 
see  the  power-house  ?  '  And  he  took  me  away 
from  the  busy  looms  to  another  building  altogether, 
and  there  I  saw  the  huge  engines  that  drove  every- 
thing. Neither  looms  nor  needles  really  work  '  of 
their  own  accord.'  Nor  do  iron  gates.  A  few  minutes 
after  the  gates  had  opened,  and  the  angel  had 
vanished,  Peter  '  came  to  the  house  of  Mary,  the 
mother  of  Mark,  where  many  were  gathered  together 
praying.'  And  then  Peter  understood  by  what 
power  the  iron  gates  had  opened,  just  as  I  under- 
stood, when  I  saw  the  engine-room,  how  the  great 
looms  worked. 

The  prayer-meeting  may  not  be  artistic.    For 


The  Angel  and  the  Iron  Gate  97 

the  matter  of  that  I  saw  very  little  in  the  power- 
room  of  the  factory  that  appealed  to  the  sense  of 
the  aesthetic  within  me ;  but  when  angels  visit 
prisons,  and  iron  gates  swing  open  of  then:  own  accord, 
there  must  be  a  driving-force  at  work  somewhere. 
And  Peter  only  discovered  it  when  he  suddenly 
broke  in  upon  a  midnight  prayer-meeting. 


IX 
SHORT  CUTS 

WE  dearly  love  a  short  cut.  Even  in  childhood  we 
resolved  the  discovery  of  short  cuts  into  a  kind  of 
juvenile  science.  There  was  the  gap  in  the  hedge, 
or  the  low  part  of  the  wall,  by  which  we  could  pass, 
by  means  of  a  squeeze  or  a  clamber,  into  the  romantic 
territory  of  our  next-door  neighbour.  With  what 
fine  scorn  we  inwardly  derided  the  ridiculous  be- 
haviour of  our  parents  when,  in  visiting  that  self- 
same neighbour,  they  marched  with  solemn  mien 
out  through  the  front  gate,  along  the  public  highway 
and  in  through  the  front  gate  of  the  house  next 
door !  It  took  them  five  mortal  minutes  to  reach  a 
spot  that,  by  a  stoop  or  a  bound,  we  could  have 
reached  in  as  many  seconds !  Then  there  was  the 
dusty  track  through  the  bush  to  the  jetty ;  and  the 
footpath  across  the  fields  to  the  church.  And  with 
what  wild  excitement  we  hailed  a  short  cut  to 
school !  When  some  adventurous  spirit  discovered 
that,  by  going  up  a  certain  right-of-way,  and  climbing 
a  certain  fence,  we  could  approach  the  school  play- 
ground from  a  new  and  undreamed-of  direction, 
our  transports  knew  no  bounds.  It  was  not  the 

98 


Short  Cuts  99 

lazy  gratification  of  having  invented  a  labour- 
saving  device  ;  it  was  the  stately  joy  of  the  explorer. 
Half  the  romance  of  life  was  bound  up  with  those 
short  cuts.  The  trysts  of  courtship  were  kept  at 
the  stiles  by  which  those  surreptitious  footways 
were  intersected.  The  most  delightful  walks  we 
ever  enjoyed  were  the  strolls  along  those  uncharted 
by-paths.  It  may  have  been  for  the  sake  of  brevity 
and  a  smart  passage  that  they  were  first  brought 
into  existence  ;  yet  it  was  not  to  their  brevity,  in 
the  last  resort,  that  they  owed  their  peculiar  charm. 
The  gap  through  the  hedge ;  the  clamber  over  the 
wall ;  the  track  through  the  bush  to  the  jetty ; 
the  footpath  across  the  fields  to  the  church ;  and 
the  right-of-way  by  which  we  took  the  school  in 
the  rear — these  appealed  to  a  certain  deep  human 
instinct  that  asserted  itself  within  us ;  and,  dissem- 
blers as  we  were,  we  just  made-believe  that  we 
pursued  these  courses  in  order  to  conserve  our 
energies  and  to  save  our  time. 

And  thus  we  got  into  the  habit.  Whether  it 
was  a  good  habit  or  a  bad  habit  depends  largely  upon 
the  realm  to  which  we  applied  it.  In  my  own  case, 
it  worked  disastrously — at  least  at  times.  Since 
I  left  school,  for  instance,  I  have  always  been  con- 
sidered good  at  figures.  Generally  speaking,  you 
have  but  to  state  your  problem,  and  I  can  furnish 
you  with  the  solution.  In  business — commercial 


ioo  Short  Cuts 

and  ecclesiastical — this  faculty  has  served  me  in 
excellent  stead.  But  at  school  it  was  of  very  little 
use  to  me.  And  I  find  it  of  very  little  use  when  I 
undertake  to  coach  my  children  in  anticipation  of 
approaching  examinations.  For  at  school  the  teacher 
not  only  propounded  the  problem,  and  received  my 
answer ;  he  went  another  step.  He  asked  me  how 
i  had  arrived  at  that  conclusion ;  and  at  that  stage 
of  the  ordeal  I  invariably  collapsed.  He  was  there 
to  teach  me  the  rules ;  and  I  had  as  much  contempt 
for  the  rules  as  I  had  for  the  route  by  which  my  grave 
and  reverend  parents  made  their  way  to  our  neigh- 
bour's door.  I  was  content  to  squeeze  through  the 
gap  or  to  jump  over  the  wall.  The  teacher  was  there 
to  show  me  the  road  to  the  jetty ;  I  scorned  the 
road,  and  approached  the  jetty  by  the  track  through 
the  bush.  I  could  see  no  sense  in  either  roads  or 
rules  if  you  could  reach  your  destination  more 
expeditiously  without  them.  But,  to  pass  abruptly 
from  the  microscopic  to  the  magnificent,  history 
furnishes  me  with  a  quite  dramatic  and  most  con- 
vincing demonstration  of  my  point.  In  his  Up 
From  Slavery,  Mr.  Booker  Washington  illustrates 
this  tendency  again  and  again.  The  slaves  were 
freed.  But  it  is  one  thing  to  be  free,  and  quite 
another  thing  to  be  worthy  of  the  rights  of  freemen. 
With  one  voice  the  black  people  cried  out  for  educa- 
tion. '  This  experience  of  a  whole  race  going  to 


Short  Cuts  101 

school  for  the  first  time  presents/  says  Mr.  Washing- 
ton, '  one  of  the  most  interesting  studies  that  has 
ever  occurred  in  connexion  with  the  development 
of  any  race.'  But  many  of  the  people  were  advanced 
in  years.  To  begin  at  the  beginning  and  attain  to 
knowledge  gradually  seemed  a  tedious  process. 
It  was  like  the  round-about  path  from  our  front 
door  to  that  of  our  next-door  neighbour.  The 
black  people  woke  up  late  to  the  consciousness  of 
their  racial  possibilities ;  and,  like  most  people  who 
wake  up  late,  they  spent  the  morning  of  their 
freedom  in  a  desperate  hurry.  Here  is  a  young 
coloured  man,  '  sitting  down  in  a  one-room  cabin, 
with  grease  on  his  clothing,  filth  all  around  him, 
and  weeds  in  the  yard  and  garden,  engaged  in 
studying  a  French  grammar  ! '  On  another  occasion, 
Mr.  Washington  '  had  to  take  a  student  who  had 
been  studying  cube-root  and  banking  and  discount 
and  explain  to  him  that  the  wisest  thing  for  him  to 
do  first  was  thoroughly  to  master  the  multiplication- 
table  ! '  There  is  much  more  to  the  same  effect. 
The  black  race  made  a  frantic  effort  to  run  before 
it  had  learned  to  walk.  '  I  felt,'  says  Mr.  Booker 
Washington,  '  that  the  conditions  were  a  good  deal 
like  those  of  an  old  coloured  man,  during  the  days 
of  slavery,  who  wanted  to  learn  how  to  play  on  the 
guitar.  In  his  desire  to  take  guitar  lessons  he  applied 
to  one  of  his  young  masters  to  teach  him ;  but  the 


102  Short  Cuts 

young  man,  not  having  much  faith  in  the  ability 
of  the  slave  to  master  the  guitar,  sought  to  discourage 
him  by  saying,  "  Uncle  Jake,  I  will  give  you  guitar 
lessons ;  but,  Jake,  I  will  have  to  charge  you  three 
dollars  for  the  first  lesson,  two  dollars  for  the  second 
lesson,  and  one  dollar  for  the  third  lesson.  But  I 
will  charge  you  only  twenty-five  cents  for  the  last 
lesson."  To  which  Uncle  Jake  answered,  "  All 
right,  boss,  I  hires  you  on  dem  terms.  But,  boss,  I 
wants  yer  to  be  sure  an'  give  me  dat  las'  lesson  first !  " 
Here  we  have  the  imposing  spectacle,  not  by  any 
means  destitute  of  pathos,  of  an  entire  race  seeking 
to  reach  its  destiny  by  a  short  cut. 

But  it  is  a  mistake.  For  that  ebullition  of 
juvenile  depravity  which  disfigured  my  school- 
days I  do  now  repent  in  dust  and  ashes.  I  was 
wrong  ;  there  can  be  no  doubt  about  that.  There 
is  a  place  in  this  world  for  rules  and  roads  as  well 
as  for  gaps  and  tracks.  I  know  now  that  my 
parents  were  right  in  approaching  our  neighbour's 
door  by  way  of  the  public  thoroughfare.  Life 
has  taught  me,  among  other  things,  that  short 
cuts  have  their  perils.  It  is  the  old  story  of 
the  Gordian  knot  over  again.  The  Phrygians, 
as  everybody  knows,  were  in  grave  perplexity, 
and  consulted  the  oracle.  The  oracle  assured 
them  that  all  their  troubles  would  cease  as  soon 
as  they  chose  for  their  king  the  first  man  they 


Short  Cuts  103 

met  driving  in  his  chariot  to  the  temple  of  Jupiter. 
Leaving  the  sacred  building,  they  set  out  along 
the  road  and  soon  met  Gordius,  whom  they  accord- 
ingly elected  king.  Gordius  drove  on  to  the  temple, 
to  return  thanks  for  his  elevation,  and  to  consecrate 
his  chariot  to  the  service  of  the  gods.  When  the 
chariot  stood  in  the  temple  courts  it  was  observed 
that  the  pole  was  fastened  to  the  yoke  by  a  knot 
of  bark  so  artfully  contrived  that  the  ends  could 
not  be  seen.  The  oracle  then  declared  that  who- 
soever should  untie  this  Gordian  knot  should  be 
ruler  over  Asia.  Alexander  the  Great  approached, 
but,  finding  himself  unable  to  untie  the  knot,  he 
drew  his  sword  and  cut  it.  And  the  ancients  said 
that  it  was  because  he  had  cut  the  knot  instead 
of  untying  it  that  his  dominion  was  so  transitory 
and  so  brief.  I  fancy  that,  if  we  look  into  it  a 
little,  we  shall  find  that  half  our  troubles  arise 
from  our  bad  habit  of  cutting  the  knots  that  we 
ought  to  patiently  untie. 

Take  our  politics,  by  way  of  example.  It  is 
much  more  easy  to  sit  back  in  our  chairs  and  pour 
the  vials  of  our  criticism  on  the  powers-that-be 
than  to  make  any  sensible  contribution  to  the 
well-being  of  the  State.  A  case  in  point  occurs 
in  Mark  Rutherford's  Clara  Hopgood.  Baruch  and 
Dennis  are  discussing  those  old  social  problems  that 
men  have  discussed  since  first  this  world  began. 


104  Short  Cuts 

Dennis  was  enlarging  upon  the  inequalities  and 
iniquities  of  social  and  industrial  life,  when  Baruch 
broke  in  with  the  pertinent  and  practical  question  • 
'  But  what  would  you  do  for  them  ?  ' 

'  Ah,  that  beats  me  ! '  replied  Dennis.'  '  I  would 
hang  somebody,  but  I  don't  know  who  it  ought  to 
be!' 

Precisely !  To  cut  the  knot  with  a  sword  is  so 
easy — and  so  ineffective ;  to  untie  it  is  so  difficult 
— and  so  rich  in  consequence.  The  politics  that 
consist  of  sentencing  to  summary  execution  states- 
men from  whom  we  differ  are  within  the  intellectual 
reach  of  most  of  us ;  and  in  that  particular  brand 
of  politics,  therefore,  most  of  us  occasionally  indulge. 
But  the  politics  that  consist  in  really  grappling 
with  the  knotty  problems,  with  a  view  to  discovering 
some  means  of  ameliorating  human  misery,  provide 
us  with  a  much  more  formidable  task.  Who  has 
intellect  sufficiently  clear,  and  fingers  sufficiently 
deft,  to  essay  the  untying  of  the  Gordian  knot? 
The  empire  of  the  world  awaits  the  coming  of  that 
patient  and  persistent  man. 

Or  look  at  another  example.  I  often  feel  that 
very  little  of  the  oratory  expended  on  Protestant 
platforms  really  touches  the  mark.  It  gets  nowhere. 
The  real  question  at  issue  is  most  pitifully  begged. 
It  may,  of  course,  be  diplomatic  to  keep  people 
well  informed  concerning  the  social  evils  that  thrive 


Short  Cuts  105 

in  Roman  Catholic  countries.  It  may,  perhaps, 
be  permissible  to  emphasize  the  abuses  that  exist 
within  the  pale  of  the  Roman  Catholic  Church. 
But  a  devout  and  intelligent  Roman  Catholic, 
listening  to  such  an  utterance,  would,  after  making 
a  reasonable  allowance  for  rhetorical  exaggeration 
admit  the  truth  of  all  that  had  been  said,  and  go 
home  to  weep,  and,  perhaps,  to  pray  over  it.  Many 
of  those  who  have  passed  over  from  Protestant 
communions  to  the  Roman  Catholic  Church  have 
travelled  very  widely  and  observed  very  closely. 
They  are  not  ignorant.  Newman  sobbed  over  the 
seamy  side  of  Romanism  before  he  made  the 
plunge.  '  I  have  never  disguised,'  he  wrote,  '  that 
there  are  actual  circumstances  in  the  Church  of 
Rome  which  pain  me  much  ;  we  do  not  look  toward 
Rome  as  believing  that  its  communion  is  infallible.' 
Then,  with  his  eyes  wide  open  to  all  the  facts  on 
which  our  orators  dilate  so  luridly,  he  took  the 
fatal  step.  And  again  he  wrote,  '  There  is  a  divine 
life  among  us,  clearly  manifested,  in  spite  of  all 
our  disorders,  which  is  as  great  a  note  of  the  Church 
as  any  can  be.' 

Now  what  was  that  divine  note?  Everything 
hinges  upon  that.  And  unless  our  Protestant 
speakers  are  prepared  to  face  that  issue  they  may 
as  well  remain  by  their  own  firesides,  lounge  in 
their  cosiest  chairs,  wear  their  warmest  slippers, 


106  Short  Cuts 

and  enjoy  the  latest  novels.     It  is  only  at  this 
point  that  sincere  and  groping  minds  can  be  help- 
fully influenced.    The   whole   question   is   one   of 
Authority.    We  dearly  love  a  lord.     There  is  no 
escaping  that  fundamental  fact.     Every  day  Pro- 
testant sheep  stray  into  Roman  Catholic  pastures 
because  there  they  can  actually  see  the  shepherd 
and  actually  feel  his  crook.     The  Roman  Church, 
with  its  hoary  traditions,  its  encrusted  ritual,  and  its 
antique  associations,  crystallizes  itself  into  a  single 
voice.     It  possesses  an  enthroned  incarnation.     It 
has  a  Pope.     Romanism  is  like  a  pine-tree.     It 
towers  to  a  pinnacle.     All  its  branches  converge 
upon  the  topmost  bough.     Protestantism  is  like 
a  palm.     Its  summit  consists  of  a  great  cluster 
of  graceful   fronds,   but   no    one    is    uppermost. 
Romanism  is  the  adoration  of  the  topmost  twig. 
In  the  person  of  the  highest  official,  confused  ears 
catch  the  accent  of  authority  for  which  they  hunger. 
Here  they  find  the  music  of  majesty.     And  they 
nestle  their  aching  heads  in  the  lap  of  a  Church 
that    will     sternly    command    their     trustfulness 
and  firmly  insist  upon  implicit  obedience.     There- 
after they  need  think  no   more.     '  In  the  midst 
of  our  difficulties,'  wrote  Newman,  '  I  have  one 
ground  of  hope,  just  one  stay,  but,  as  I  think,  a 
sufficient  one.     It  serves  me  in  the  stead  of  all 
arguments    whatever ;    it     hardens    me    against 


Short  Cuts  107 

criticism ;  it  supports  me  if  I  begin  to  despond ; 
and  to  it  I  ever  come  round.  It  is  the  decision  of 
the  Holy  See  ;  Saint  Peter  has  spoken.'  Here  the 
weary  brain  finds  rest.  Here  is  the  Gordian  knot, 
so  trying  to  the  fingers,  cut  swiftly  with  a  sword. 
Here  is  the  discovery  of  a  short  cut  that  may  save 
the  tired  feet  many  a  long  and  dreary  trudge. 

The  temptation  meets  us  at  every  turn.  And 
it  is  because  that  temptation  is  so  general  that  it 
figures  so  prominently  in  the  Temptation  in  the 
wilderness.  He  was  tempted  in  all  points  like  as 
we  are  ;  and  therefore  He  was  tempted  to  take  short 
cuts.  This  is  the  essence  of  that  weird  and  terrible 
story.  It  is  notable  that  all  the  three  things  that 
Jesus  was  tempted  to  acquire  were  good  things,  things 
to  be  desired,  things  that  He  was  destined  to  possess. 
But  the  whole  point  of  the  record  is  that  He  was 
tempted  to  make  His  way  to  the  bread  and  the 
angels  and  the  kingdoms  by  means  of  short  cuts. 
Now  this  is  vastly  significant.  It  is  significant 
because,  when  you  come  to  think  of  it,  nearly  all 
the  things  that  we  are  tempted  to  acquire  are  good 
things.  The  temptation  consists  in  the  suggestion 
that  we  should  possess  ourselves  of  those  good 
things  prematurely  or  illicitly.  We  are  urged  to 
make  short  cuts  to  our  legitimate  goal.  Jesus  was 
tempted  to  cut  the  Gordian  knot,  and  to  thus 
obtain  an  immediate  but  fleeting  hold  on  the  objects 


xoS  Short  Cuts 

of  His  just  desire.  He  rejected  the  proposal.  He 
preferred  patiently  to  untie  the  knot,  and  thus  to 
make  Himself  king  of  all  kingdoms  for  ever  and  for 
ever. 

Of  the  perils  attending  short  cuts  John  Bunyan 
is  our  chief  expositor.  Wherever  a  dangerous  but 
alluring  footpath  breaks  off  from  the  high-road,  a 
statue  of  Mr.  Worldly  Wiseman  ought  to  be  erected- 
For  it  was  Mr.  Worldly  Wiseman  that  first  got  the 
poor  pilgrim  into  such  sore  trouble.  Mr.  Worldly 
Wiseman  knew  a  short  cut  to  the  Celestial  City. 
Christian  took  that  short  cut — the  footpath  over  the 
hills  and  through  the  village  of  Morality — and  dearly 
did  he  pay  for  his  folly.  And  yet  it  is  difficult  to 
blame  him.  Poor  Christian  was  heavily  burdened, 
and  every  inch  that  could  be  saved  was  a  considera- 
tion. Evangelist  had  clearly  directed  him,  it 
is  true ;  but  then,  if  Mr.  Worldly  Wiseman  knew 
a  short  cut,  why  not  take  it  ?  '  Let  him  who  has 
no  such  burden  as  this  poor  pilgrim  had  cast  the 
first  stone  at  Christian ;  I  cannot,'  says  Dr.  Alexander 
Whyte.  '  If  one  who  looked  like  a  gentleman 
came  to  me  to-night  and  told  me  how  I  could  on  the 
spot  get  to  a  peace  of  conscience  never  to  be  lost 
again,  and  how  I  could  get  a  heart  to-night  that 
would  never  any  more  plague  and  pollute  me,  I 
should  be  mightily  tempted  to  forget  what  all  my 
former  teachers  had  told  me,  and  try  this  new 


Short  Cuts  109 

gospel.'  Exactly !  The  temptation  to  cut  the 
Gordian  knot  is  very  alluring.  The  advice  to  get- 
rich-quick,  or  to  get-good-quick,  or  to  get-there- 
quick,  is  very  acceptable.  But  by  his  story  of  the 
short  cut,  and  the  anguish  that  followed,  Bunyan 
has  taught  us  that  the  longest  way  round  is  often 
the  shortest  way  home.  There  is  sound  sense  in  the 
song  that  bids  us  '  take  time  to  be  holy.'  The  short 
cut  that  avoids  the  wicket-gate  and  the  Cross  is 
merely  a  blind  lane  from  which  we  shall  return 
sooner  or  later  with  blistered  feet  and  broken 
hearts. 


PART  II 


THE  POSTMAN 

I  MUST  say  a  good  word  for  the  postman.  He  occu- 
pies so  large  a  place  in  most  of  our  lives  that,  as  a 
matter  of  common  courtesy,  the  least  we  can  do  is 
to  recognize  his  value  and  importance.  Others 
may  not  feel  as  I  do,  but  I  confess  that  I  bless  the 
postman  every  day  of  my  life.  Not  that  I  am  so 
fond  of  receiving  letters,  for  I  bless  him  with  equal 
fervency  whether  he  calls  or  whether  he  passes. 
I  know  that  in  this  respect  I  am  hopelessly  illogical. 
If  I  am  pleased  to  see  the  postman  pass  the  gate, 
I  ought,  if  strictly  logical,  to  be  sorry  to  see  him 
enter  it.  And,  contrariwise,  if  the  sight  of  the 
postman  coming  up  the  path  affords  me  gratification, 
the  spectacle  of  his  passing  my  gate  ought  to  fill 
me  with  disappointment.  But  I  am  not  logical, 
never  was,  and  never  shall  be.  The  best  things  in 
the  world  are  hopelessly  illogical — motherhood  for 
example.  A  mother  sits  in  the  arm-chair  by  the 
fire,  even  as  I  write.  She  is  chattering  away  to 
her  baby.  She  knows  perfectly  well  that  the  baby 
doesn't  understand  a  word  she  says.  Knowing 
that  she  would,  if  she  were  logical,  give  up  talking 

113  H 


ii4  The  Postman 

to  the  child.  But,  just  because  she  is  so  hopelessly 
illogical,  she  prattles  away  as  though  the  baby 
could  understand  every  word.  It  is  a  way  mothers 
have,  and  we  love  them  all  the  better  for  it.  An  illog- 
ical lady  is  a  very  lovable  affair ;  but  who  ever  fell 
in  love  with  a  syllogism  ?  Robert  Louis  Stevenson 
is  the  most  lovable  of  all  our  English  writers,  and 
the  most  illogical.  Here  is  an  entry  from  his  diary, 
by  way  of  illustration.  '  A  little  Irish  girl,'  he 
writes,  '  is  now  reading  my  book  aloud  to  her  sister 
at  my  elbow.  They  chuckle,  and  I  feel  flattered ; 
anon  they  yawn,  and  I  am  indifferent ;  such  a 
wisely  conceived  thing  is  vanity.'  Just  so.  And 
why  not?  There  is  a  higher  wisdom  than  the 
wisdom  of  logic.  If  Stevenson  had  been  logical,  he 
would  have  felt  elated  by  the  chuckles  and  crushed 
by  the  yawns.  But  he  knew  better,  and  so  do  I. 
If  the  postman  passes  my  door,  I  heave  a  sigh  of 
relief  that  I  have  no  letters  to  answer  ;  it  is  almost 
as  good  as  being  granted  a  half-holiday.  Am  I 
therefore  to  be  angry  when  the  postman  enters  the 
gate,  and  accept  his  letters  with  a  grunt  ?  Not  at 
all.  In  that  case  I  throw  my  logic  over  the  hedge 
for  the  edification  of  my  next-door  neighbour,  and 
feel  pleased  that  some  of  my  friends  are  thinking 
of  me  I  greet  the  postman  with  a  smile,  and  try 
to  make  him  feel  that  he  has  rendered  me  an  appre- 
ciable service,  as  indeed  he  has. 


The  Postman  115 

I  am  writing  on  the  hundredth  anniversary  of  the 
birth  of  Anthony  Trollope,  and  I  fancy  that  it  is 
the  thought  of  Trollope  and  his  extraordinary 
work  that  has  set  me  scribbling  about  the  postman. 
For  Trollope  was  much  more  than  a  novelist.  He 
was,  in  a  sense,  the  prince  of  British  postmen,  and 
the  forerunner  of  Rowland  Hill  and  Henniker 
Heaton.  To  a  far  greater  extent  than  we  sometimes 
dream,  we  owe  the  efficiency  of  our  modern  postal 
service  to  Anthony  Trollope.  But  before  he  died 
he  became  the  victim  of  serious  misgivings.  He 
feared  that  we  were  losing  the  art  of  letter-writing. 
He  produced  a  bundle  of  his  mother's  love-letters. 
'  In  no  novel  of  Richardson's  or  Miss  Burney's,' 
he  declared,  '  is  there  a  correspondence  so  sweet, 
so  graceful,  and  so  well  expressed.  What  girl  now 
studies  the  words  with  which  she  shall  address  her 
lover,  or  seeks  to  charm  him  with  grace  of  diction  ?  ' 
And  this  lamentation  was  penned,  mark  you,  years 
and  years  ago,  before  cheap  telegrams  and  picture 
post  cards  had  become  the  normal  means  of  com- 
munication ! 

I  suppose  the  real  trouble  is  that  we  have  allowed 
the  amazing  development  of  our  commercial  corre- 
spondence to  corrupt  the  character  of  our  private 
letter-writing.  We  indite  all  our  letters  in  the 
phraseology  of  the  business  college.  We  write 
briefly,  tersely,  pointedly,  and,  most  abominable 


n6  The  Postman 

of  all,  by  return  of  post.  I  should  like  to  write 
a  separate  chapter  in  vigorous  denunciation  of 
the  prompt  reply.  Private  letters  should  never 
be  hastily  answered.  If  my  friend  replies  instantly 
to  my  long,  familiar  letter,  he  gives  me  the 
painful  impression  that  he  wants  to  be  rid  of 
me,  and  is  unwilling  to  have  on  his  mind  the 
thought  of  the  letter  he  owes  me.  One  of  these 
days  I  shall  start  a  new  society  to  be  called 
the  '  Wait  a  Week  Society.'  Its  members  will 
be  solemnly  pledged  to  wait  at  least  a  week 
before  replying  to  their  private  letters.  There  are 
strong  and  subtle  reasons  for  taking  such  a  vow. 
First  of  all,  private  letters  should  be  easy,  leisurely, 
chatty,  and  should  only  be  written  when  one  is  in 
the  mood,  or  when,  for  some  reason,  the  person  to 
whom  it  is  addressed  is  specially  in  one's  thoughts. 
To  this,  it  may  be  replied  that  one  is  never  so  much 
in  the  mood  to  write  to  a  friend  as  when  he  has  just 
received  a  letter  from  that  friend.  But  the  argu- 
ment is  fallacious.  He  is  a  very  happy  letter-writer 
indeed  who  can  write  me  a  long,  free,  chatty  letter 
without  saying  anything  that  will  rub  me  the  wrong 
way  or  with  which  I  shall  disagree.  During  the 
first  twenty-four  hours  after  receiving  his  letter, 
those  are  the  things  that  are  most  emphatically 
impressed  upon  my  mind.  If  I  reply  within  twenty- 
four  hours,  my  letter  to  my  friend  will  deal  largely 


The  Postman  117 

with  those  disputatious  and  controversial  points, 
and  the  inevitable  result  will  be  that  the  whole 
of  my  letter  will  grate  upon  him  just  as  part  of  his 
letter  has  grated  upon  me.  But  if,  as  president  of 
my  own  society,  I  wait  a  week  before  replying  to 
his  letter,  I  shall  see  things  in  their  true  perspective, 
and  write  him  a  long  and  breezy  letter  in  which  the 
things  that  vexed  me  find  no  place  at  all.  I  am 
often  asked,  What  is  the  unpardonable  sin?  The 
only  sin  that  I  can  never  pardon  is  the  sin  of  writing 
angry  letters.  I  can  forgive  a  man  for  speaking 
hastily ;  I  have  a  temper  myself.  But  to  deliberately 
commit  one's  spite  to  paper  is  to  become  guilty  of 
an  amazing  atrocity  and  to  degrade  at  the  same 
time  the  postman's  high  and  solemn  office. 

I  bless  the  postman  because  he  can  do  for  me, 
and  do  better  than  I  could  do,  so  many  delicate 
things.  I  regard  the  postman  as  a  faithful  and 
indispensable  assistant.  It  often  falls  to  a  minister's 
lot  to  approach  people,  and  especially  young  people, 
on  the  most  delicate  and  important  subjects.  Upon 
their  decisions  much  of  their  future  happiness  and 
usefulness  will  depend.  I  must  therefore  go  about 
the  business  with  the  utmost  care.  But  if  I  go  to 
that  young  man  and  abruptly  introduce  the  matter 
to  him,  I  at  once  put  him  in  a  false  position,  and 
greatly  imperil  my  chance  of  success.  We  are  face 
to  face ;  I  have  spoken  to  him,  and  he,  in  common 


n8  The  Postman 

decency,  must  speak  to  me.  It  would  be  a  thousand 
times  better  if,  having  opened  my  heart  to  him,  I 
could  withdraw  before  he  uttered  a  single  word. 
But  as  it  is,  I  have  forced  him  into  a  position  in 
which  he  must  say  something.  His  judgement 
is  not  ripe,  his  mind  is  not  made  up,  the  whole 
subject  is  new  to  him,  and  yet  my  indiscretion  has 
placed  him  in  such  a  position  that  he  is  compelled 
to  commit  himself.  He  must  say  something  with- 
out due  consideration  ;  I  stand  there,  like  a  highway- 
robber,  with  my  pistol  pointed  at  his  brow,  and  he 
must  give  me  words.  I  may  not  want  his  words 
immediately ;  and  he  may  wish  he  need  not  give 
his  words  immediately  ;  but  we  are  both  the  victims 
of  a  situation  which  I  have  foolishly  precipitated. 
He  speaks ;  and  however  he  may  guard  his  utter- 
ance, his  final  decision  will  inevitably  be  compro- 
mised by  those  hasty  and  immature  sentences. 
The  evidence  must  be  perfectly  overwhelming  that 
will  lead  a  man  to  reverse  a  decision  once  made. 
And  here  am  I,  his  would-be  friend  and  helper, 
forcing  him  into  a  position  from  which  he  will  find 
it  very  difficult  to  extricate  himself.  I  meant  to 
do  him  good,  and  I  have  done  him  incalculable  harm. 
I  meant  to  be  his  friend,  and  I  have  become  his 
enemy.  So  true  is  it  that  evil  is  wrought  from  want 
of  thought  as  well  as  want  of  heart. 
Now  see  how  much  better  the  postman  manages 


The  Postman  119 

the  matter.  I  sit  down  at  my  desk  and  write  exactly 
what  I  want  to  say.  I  am  not  under  any  necessity 
to  complete  a  sentence  until  I  can  do  so  to  my  own 
perfect  satisfaction.  I  can  pause  to  consider  the 
exact  word  that  I  wish  to  employ.  And  if,  when 
it  is  written,  my  letter  does  not  please  me,  I  can  tear 
it  up  without  his  being  any  the  wiser,  and  write  it 
all  over  again.  I  am  not  driven  to  impromptu 
utterance  or  careless  phraseology.  I  am  free  of  the 
inevitable  effect  upon  my  expression  produced 
by  the  presence  of  another  person.  I  am  not 
embarrassed  by  the  embarrassment  that  he  feels 
on  being  approached  on  so  vital  a  theme.  I  am 
cool,  collected,  leisurely,  and  free.  And  the  advan- 
tages that  come  to  me  in  inditing  the  letter  are 
shared  by  him  in  receiving  it.  He  is  alone,  and 
therefore  entirely  himself.  He  is  not  disconcerted 
by  the  presence  of  an  interviewer.  He  owes  nothing 
to  etiquette  or  ceremony.  He  has  the  advantage 
of  having  the  case  stated  to  him  as  forcefully  and  as 
well  as  I  am  able  to  state  it.  He  can  read  at  ease 
and  in  silence  without  the  awkward  feeling  that, 
in  one  moment,  he  must  make  some  sort  of  reply. 
If  he  is  vexed  at  my  intrusion  into  his  private  affairs, 
he  has  time  to  recover  from  his  displeasure  and  to 
reflect  that  I  am  moved  entirely  by  a  desire  for  his 
welfare.  If  he  is  flattered  at  my  attention,  he  has 
time  to  fling  aside  such  superficial  considerations 


120  The  Postman 

and  to  face  the  issue  on  its  merits.  The  matter 
sinks  into  his  soul ;  becomes  part  of  his  normal  life 
and  thought ;  and,  by  the  time  we  meet,  he  is 
prepared  to  talk  it  over  without  embarrassment, 
without  personal  feeling,  and  without  undue  reserve. 
In  such  matters — and  they  are  among  the  most 
important  matters  with  which  a  minister  is  called 
to  deal — the  postman  is  able  to  render  me  invaluable 
assistance. 

There  is  something  positively  sacramental  about 
the  postman.  For  the  letters  that  he  carries  have 
no  value  hi  themselves ;  they  are  simply  paper  and 
ink.  They  are  precious  only  so  far  as  they  reveal 
the  heart  of  the  sender  to  the  heart  of  the  receiver. 
Here,  for  instance,  is  a  letter  for  a  young  lady. 
She  is  at  the  door  before  the  bell  has  ceased  its 
ringing.  She  greets  the  postman  with  a  smile, 
and  blushes  as  she  glances  at  the  familiar  hand- 
writing. As  soon  as  the  postman  has  closed  the 
gate  after  him,  she  hurries  down  to  the  summer- 
house,  her  favourite  retreat,  to  read  her  letter.  But 
she  is  not  alone.  Bruno,  her  big  collie,  goes  bounding 
after  his  mistress.  She  reads  the  first  pages  of 
the  letter,  and  allows  the  sheet  to  slip  from  her 
lap  to  the  ground,  whilst  she  proceeds  to  devour  the 
following  pages.  And  as  the  fluttering  missive 
ies  upon  the  floor  of  the  summer-house,  Bruno 
examines  it.  A  dog's  eyes  are  sharper  than  a 


The  Postman  121 

girl's  eyes  ;  yet  how  little  the  dog  sees  !  He  sees  a 
piece  of  white  paper  covered  with  black  marks — 
sees  perhaps  more  in  that  respect  than  she  does — 
yet  he  sees  nothing,  and  less  than  nothing,  for  all 
that.  For  she  sees,  not  the  black  marks  on  the 
white  paper,  but  the  very  heart  of  one  who  worships 
her.  She  is  gazing  so  intently  into  the  soul  of  her 
lover  that  she  does  not  notice  whether  the  '  t's ' 
are  crossed,  or  the  '  i's  '  dotted.  To  her  the  letter 
is  a  sacramental  thing ;  its  value  lies  not  in  itself, 
but  in  the  revelation  that  it  makes  to  her. 

And  it  is  because  the  postman  spends  his  whole 
life  among  just  such  sacramental  things  that  we 
welcome  and  honour  him.  We  have  an  amiable 
way  of  transferring  to  the  messenger  the  welcome 
that  we  accord  to  the  message.  Jessie  Pope  de- 
scribes the  joy  of  a  mother  on  receiving  a  wire  from 
her  soldier-boy  that  he  will  soon  be  back  again 
from  the  front. 

'  Home  at  six-thirty  to- day.' 

Oh,  what  a  tumult  of  joy ! 
Growing  suspense  flies  away, 

God  bless  that  telegraph-boy  ! 

God  bless  that  telegraph-boy/  Exactly.  And  that 
is  why  we  honour  the  postman.  The  messenger 
always  shares  in  the  welcome  given  to  the  message 
How  beautiful  upon  the  mountains  are  the  feet  of 


122  The  Postman 

him  that  bringeth  good  tidings,  that  publisheth 
peace  1  We  ministers  often  share  in  the  postman's 
benediction.  We  are  welcomed  and  honoured  and 
loved,  not  so  much  for  our  own  sake  as  for  the  sake 
of  the  great,  glad  message  that  we  bear.  The  heart 
leaps  up  to  the  message  and  blesses  the  messenger. 
God  bless  the  telegraph-boy !  God  bless  the 
postman  I 


II 

CRYING  FOR  THE  MOON 

LET  it  be  distinctly  understood  that  nothing  that  1 
shall  now  say  is  addressed  to  the  crowd.  To  the 
crowd  it  would  probably  do  more  harm  than  good. 
It  is  intended  only  for  a  single  individual ;  and  he,  I 
think,  will  understand.  I  am  told  that  there  is  a 
unique  secret  by  means  of  which  a  wireless  message 
from  the  British  Navy  can  be  transmitted  to  the 
Admiralty  Office  without  risk  of  interception.  At 
the  Admiralty  a  superlatively  sensitive  and  super- 
latively secret  instrument  is  most  carefully  attuned 
to  the  instrument  of  the  battleship  from  which  the 
message  is  expected.  Then,  when  all  is  ready, 
every  wireless  operator  in  the  Grand  Fleet  pulls  out 
all  the  stops  and  bangs  on  all  the  keys  of  his  instru- 
ment, and  the  inevitable  result  is  the  creation  of  a 
din  that  is  almost  deafening  to  all  listeners  at 
ordinary  receivers.  But  through  the  crash  and  the 
tumult  the  specially  delicate  instrument  at  the 
Admiralty  Office  can  distinctly  hear  its  mate,  and 
the  priceless  syllables  penetrate  the  thunder  of 
senseless  sound  without  the  slightest  loss  or  leakage. 
I  am  about  to  attempt  a  similar  experiment.  I 

193 


124  Crying  for  the  Moon 

have  a  message  for  a  certain  man.  It  is  important 
that  he,  and  he  alone,  should  get  it.  It  would  do 
untold  damage  if  it  were  heard  at  other  receivers. 
Let  him  therefore  take  some  pains  to  attune  his 
instrument  to  mine. 

Now  it  is  usual,  and  it  is  altogether  good,  to  encour- 
age people  to  entertain  lofty  ambitions,  high  ideals, 
and  great  expectations.  It  is  a  most  necessary 
injunction,  and  I  have  not  a  word  to  say  against  it. 
It  stirs  the  blood  like  a  trumpet-blast.  It  rouses  us 
like  a  challenge.  But,  however  excellent  the  medi- 
cine may  be,  it  cannot  be  expected  to  suit  every 
ailment.  No  one  drug  is  a  panacea  for  all  our 
human  ills.  And  even  the  stimulating  tonic  to 
which  I  have  referred  does  not  at  all  meet  the  need 
of  the  man  for  whom  I  am  now  prescribing.  John 
Sheergood  is  a  friend  of  mine,  and  a  really  capital 
fellow.  But  I  should  not  call  him  a  happy  man. 
His  trouble  is  that  his  ambitions  are  too  lofty,  his 
expectations  too  great,  and  his  ideals,  in  a  sense, 
too  high.  He  is  crying  for  the  moon,  and  breaking 
his  heart  because  he  can't  get  it.  I  am  profoundly 
sorry  for  this  morbid  friend  of  mine,  and  should 
dearly  like  to  comfort  him.  His  ideal  is  perfection, 
nothing  less ;  and  whenever  he  falls  short  of  it  he  is 
in  the  depths  of  despair.  If,  as  a  student,  he  entered 
for  a  competition,  he  felt  that  he  was  in  disgrace 
unless  he  secured  the  very  first  place.  If  he  sat  for 


Crying  for  the  Moon  125 

an  examination,  he  counted  every  mark  short  of 
the  coveted  hundred  per  cent,  as  an  indelible  stain 
upon  his  character.  He  is  in  abject  misery  unless 
he  can  strike  twelve  at  every  hour  of  the  day.  I 
both  admire  him  and  pity  him  at  the  same  time. 
His  parents  once  told  me  that  when  he  was  a  very 
small  boy  he  contracted  measles.  The  illness  went 
hardly  with  him,  and  left  him  frail  and  debilitated. 
The  doctor  ordered  a  prolonged  holiday  by  the 
seaside,  with  plenty  of  good  food,  plenty  of  fresh  air, 
and,  above  all,  plenty  of  bathing.  He  was  only  a 
little  fellow,  and  when  he  approached  the  bathing- 
sheds  for  the  first  time  his  father  accompanied  him. 

'  I  don't  want  to  go  in,  dad,'  he  cried  appealingly  ; 
'  it's  cold,  and  I'm  cold,  and  I  don't  like  it ! ' 

'  It  will  make  you  grow  up  into  a  big  man,  sonny  ! ' 
his  father  replied  persuasively. 

Now  this  touched  Jack  on  a  very  tender  spot, 
for,  although  his  father  was  tall,  and  he  himself 
cherished  an  inordinate  admiration  for  tall  men,  he 
was  himself  almost  ridiculously  small  He  had 
several  times  contrasted  himself  with  other  small 
boys  of  the  same  age,  and  had  felt  shockingly 
humiliated. 

'  Will  it  really,  dad ;  honour  bright  ?  '  he  asked 
anxiously,  carefully  scrutinizing  his  father's  face. 

'  It  will  indeed,  sonny ;  that  is  why  the  doctor 
ordered  it.' 


126  Crying  for  the  Moon 

Poor  little  Jack  submitted  with  a  wry  face  to  the 
process  of  disrobing,  and,  with  a  shiver,  bravely 
approached  the  water.  Summoning  all  his  reserves 
of  courage,  he  waded  in  until  the  water  was  up  to 
his  knees,  to  his  waist,  and  at  last  to  his  neck.  The 
excruciating  part  of  the  ordeal  was  by  this  time 
over  ;  and,  for  the  sake  of  the  benefit  so  confidently 
promised  him,  he  tolerated  the  caress  of  the  waves 
for  the  next  five  minutes.  Then  he  rushed  out  of 
the  water.  As  soon  as  he  was  beyond  the  reach  of 
the  foam  he  stopped  abruptly,  surveyed  himself 
carefully  from  top  to  toe,  and  straightway  burst 
into  tears.  His  mother,  who  was  sitting  knitting 
on  the  beach,  at  once  ran  to  his  assistance. 

'  Why,  whatever's  the  matter,  Jack  ?  What 
are  you  crying  for  ? ' 

'  Oh,  mum,  just  look  how  wee  I  am !  And  dad 
said  that  if  I  went  into  the  water  it  would  make  a 
big  man  of  me  ! ' 

He  has  often  since  joined  in  the  laugh,  whenever 
the  story  of  his  childish  adventure  has  been  related 
in  his  hearing.  But  it  is  worth  recording  as  being 
so  eminently  characteristic  of  him.  He  has  never 
outgrown  that  boyish  peculiarity.  He  is  always 
setting  his  heart  on  instantaneous  maturity.  He 
seems  to  think  that  the  world  should  have  been 
built  on  a  sort  of  Jack-and-the-beanstalk  principle. 
He  is  continually  sowing  seeds  overnight,  and 


Crying  for  the  Moon  127 

feeling  depressed  if  he  cannot  gather  the  fruit  as 
soon  as  he  wakes  in  the  morning.  Many  of  us  have 
watched  the  Indian  conjurer  sow  the  seed  of  a 
mango-tree ;  throw  a  cloth  over  the  pot ;  mutter 
mysterious  charms  and  incantations ;  and  then  hit 
the  cloth.  And,  behold,  a  full-grown  mango-tree ! 
He  replaces  the  cloth,  mutters  further  incantations, 
again  removes  the  covering,  and,  lo,  the  mango-tree 
is  in  full  flower !  And  when  a  third  time  he  un- 
covers the  plant,  the  mango-tree  stands  forth, 
every  bough  freighted  with  a  heavy  load  of  fruit ! 
I  have  no  idea  as  to  how  the  trick  is  done.  I  only 
know  that  poor  John  Sheergood  seems  to  be  ever- 
lastingly lamenting  the  misfortune  that  ordained  him 
to  any  existence  other  than  that  of  an  Indian  con- 
jurer. He  is  grievously  disappointed,  not  because 
he  was  born  with  no  silver  spoon  in  his  mouth,  but 
because  he  was  born  with  no  magic  wand  in  his 
hand.  His  mango-trees  come  to  fruition  very, 
very  slowly.  John  believes  in  quick  returns  and 
lightning  changes  ;  and  he  is  irritated  and  annoyed 
by  the  tardiness  of  that  old-fashioned  process 
called  growth.  It  is  good  for  a  man  to  have  lofty 
ideals  ;  but  I  am  sure  that  John  Sheergood  would  be 
a  happier  man,  and  make  us  all  more  happy,  if  he 
would  only  break  himself  of  his  inveterate  habit  of 
crying  for  the  moon. 
In  justice  to  John  I  am  bound  to  say  that,  as 


123  Crying  for  the  Moon 

on  the  sands  years  ago,  his  principal  disappointment 
is  with  himself.  I  have  done  my  best  to  persuade 
him  that  a  man  should  be  infinitely  patient  with 
himself.  Nothing  is  to  be  gained  by  getting  out  of 
temper  with  yourself.  You  may  scold  yourself 
and  scourge  yourself  unmercifully ;  but  I  doubt 
if  it  does  much  good.  A  man  must  win  his  self- 
respect  ;  and  you  can  only  learn  to  respect  yourself 
by  being  very  gentle  and  very  considerate  and  very 
patient  with  yourself.  A  man's  self-culture  is  his 
first  and  principal  charge  ;  and  he  will  never  succeed 
unless  he  both  loves  himself  and  treats  himself 
lovingly.  A  man  should  be  as  gentle  with  himself 
as  a  gardener  is  with  his  orchids  ;  as  a  nurse  is  with 
her  patient ;  as  a  mother  is  with  her  troublesome 
child.  A  gardener  who  lost  all  patience  with  his 
delicate  plants  ;  a  nurse  who  treated  her  poor  patient 
peevishly ;  or  a  mother  who  met  ill-temper  with 
ill-temper  could  only  expect  to  fail.  I  have  urged 
John  Sheergood  to  treat  himself  with  a  softer  hand, 
and  to  greet  himself  with  a  smile.  I  lent  him 
Henry  Drummond's  lovely  essay  on  The  Lilies, 
taking  the  precaution,  before  doing  so,  to  underline 
the  following  sentences :  '  Growth  must  be  spon- 
taneous. A  boy  not  only  grows  without  trying, 
but  he  cannot  grow  if  he  tries.  The  man  who 
struggles  in  agony  to  grow  makes  the  church  into 
a  workshop  when  God  meant  it  to  be  a  beautiful 


Crying  for  the  Moon  129 

garden.'  There  is  a  good  deal  in  the  chapter  that 
will  have  a  special  interest  for  my  poor  self-castigated 
friend. 

But,  although  his  lash  falls  principally  upon  his 
own  back,  he  is  not  the  only  sufferer.  I  shall  never 
forget  when,  as  a  young  fellow,  he  joined  the  church. 
His  conversion  was  a  very  radiant  experience,  and, 
in  the  ecstasy  of  it  all,  he  formed  a  brightly  rose- 
tinted  conception  of  what  the  fellowship  of  the 
church  must  be.  The  idea  of  being  admitted  to 
the  society  of  numbers  of  people  as  happy  as  himself  ! 
They  would  be  able  to  tell  of  experiences  as  glorious 
as  his  own  ;  they  would  be  sure  to  congratulate  him 
on  his  inexpressible  joy,  and  to  help  him  in  relation 
to  the  difficulties  that  beset  his  daily  path.  They 
would  encourage  him  by  their  sympathy  and 
stimulate  him  by  their  example.  Their  conver- 
sation would  illumine  for  him  the  sacred  page ; 
their  vivid  testimonies  to  answered  prayer  would 
give  him  greater  confidence  in  approaching  the 
Throne  of  Grace;  the  very  atmosphere  that  he 
expected  to  breathe  would,  he  felt  sure,  inflame 
his  own  devotion  to  the  highest  and  holiest  things. 

He  has  often  since  told  me  of  his  disillusionment. 
It  happened  to  be  a  wet  night  when  he  was  received 
into  membership,  and  there  were  fewer  members 
present  than  were  usually  there.  As  soon  as  the 
service  was  over  they  broke  up  into  knots.  He 

I 


130  Crying  for  the  Moon 

overheard  one  group  discussing  a  wedding ;  and 
heard  a  man  with  a  strident  voice  say  that  it  was 
a  beastly  night  to  be  out  without  an  umbrella. 
But  nobody  took  any  notice  of  John,  and  he  left 
the  building.  To  complete  his  discomfiture  he 
mistook  the  step  as  he  passed  out  of  the  church  and 
stumbled  awkwardly  into  the  street.  '  The  whole 
thing  was  an  awful  come-down,'  he  told  me  after- 
wards, '  the  greatest  surprise  I  had  ever  known.  I 
felt  as  if  the  bottom  had  dropped  out  of  every  thing.' 
He  got  over  it,  of  course ;  and  learned  by  happy 
experience  that  the  people  who  treated  him  so 
coyly  on  that  memorable  night  are  not  half  as  bad 
as  they  seemed.  Many  of  them  are  now  among 
his  dearest  and  most  intimate  friends ;  whilst  even 
with  the  man  who  growled  at  the  weather  he  has 
since  spent  some  really  delightful  times.  One  of 
the  oddest  things  in  life  is  the  dread  that  some 
people  feel  of  appearing  as  good  as  they  really  are. 
And  John  has  found  out  now  that,  hi  spite  of  the 
cold  douche  administered  to  him  that  night,  there 
is  in  the  church  a  glow  of  genuine  enthusiasm  and 
a  wealth  of  spirituality  that  in  those  days  he  never 
suspected.  But  it  did  not  reveal  itself  all  at  once. 
The  best  things  never  do.  And  because  the  church 
did  not  put  on  her  beautiful  garments  as  soon  as 
he  entered,  John  was  mortified  and  confounded. 
He  felt  just  as  he  felt  that  day  on  the  sands  when  he 


Crying  for  the  Moon  131 

discovered  with  disgust  that,  under  the  spell  of  the 
sea,  he  had  not  immediately  assumed  gigantic 
proportions.  As  I  say,  he  has  got  over  it  now,  and 
sm'les  at  it,  just  as  he  smiles  when  his  adventure 
by  the  seaside  is  recounted. 

He  was  a  great  favourite  in  the  church,  but  his 
ingrained  peculiarity  betrayed  itself  with  unfail- 
ing regularity  in  one  particular  direction.  Oddly 
enough,  in  view  of  his  own  experience,  he  was  a 
little  severe  with  new  members.  I  do  not  mean 
that  he  treated  them  coldly  or  distantly ;  nobody 
was  more  genial.  But  he  expected  too  much  of 
them.  He  was  disappointed  unless  the  convert 
of  yesterday  proved  himself  the  full-blown  saint 
of  to-day.  To  satisfy  him,  they  had  to  be  raw 
recruits  one  day  and  hardened  veterans  the  next. 
It  was  merely  another  phase  of  his  Jack-and-the- 
beanstalk  philosophy.  It  was  the  magician  and 
the  mango-tree  over  again.  In  a  way  it  was  very 
fine  to  see  how  he  grieved  over  the  slightest  lapse 
on  the  part  of  these  new  members.  The  smallest 
inconsistency  in  their  behaviour  filled  him  with 
remorse,  and  he  was  afflicted  with  the  gravest 
suspicions  as  to  our  wisdom  in  welcoming  such 
people  into  fellowship.  He  failed,  it  seemed  to  me, 
to  distinguish  between  the  raw  material  and  the 
finished  article.  The  Church  evidently  had  some 
very  raw  material  in  her  membership  when  the 


132  Crying  for  the  Moon 

Pauline  Epistles  were  written  ;  and  it  is  a  mercy  for 
John  that  he  was  not  born  some  centuries  earlier. 

John  afterwards  left  us  and  entered  the  ministry. 
We  were  exceedingly  sorry  to  lose  him.  A  man  more 
generally  honoured,  respected,  and  beloved  I 
have  seldom  seen.  The  church  was  distinctly 
poorer  after  he  left,  although  we  were  all  glad  that 
he  had  given  himself  to  so  great  a  work.  But  he 
carried  his  old  characteristic  up  the  pulpit  steps 
with  him.  He  has  often  told  me  the  story  of  that 
first  sermon  and  the  way  it  was  received.  Such 
confidences  between  one  minister  and  another  are 
sacred,  and  I  shall  not  betray  this  one.  But  I  never 
hear  John  refer  to  that  experience  without  thinking 
of  Mark  Rutherford.  In  his  Autobiography,  Mark 
Rutherford  tells  how,  on  settling  at  his  first  pastorate, 
he  put  all  his  soul  into  his  first  sermon.  He  was 
elated  by  the  solemnity  and  grandeur  of  his  calling, 
and  spoke  out  of  the  very  depths  of  his  heart. 
'  After  the  service  was  over,'  he  says,  '  I  went  down 
into  the  vestry.  Nobody  came  near  me  but  the 
chapel-keeper,  who  said  that  it  was  raining,  and 
immediately  went  away  to  put  out  the  lights  and 
shut  up  the  building.  I  had  no  umbrella,  and  there 
was  nothing  for  it  but  to  walk  home  in  the  wet. 
When  I  got  to  my  lodgings  I  found  that  my  supper, 
consisting  of  bread  and  cheese,  was  on  the  table, 
but  there  was  no  fire.  I  was  overwrought,  and  paced 


Crying  for  the  Moon  133 

about  for  hours  in  hysterics.  All  that  I  had  been 
preaching  seemed  the  merest  vanity.'  And  so  on. 
John  Sheergood's  experience  was  not  unlike  it. 
It  was  the  sudden  descent  from  the  glowingly 
romantic  ideal  to  the  brutally  prosaic  reality.  It 
nearly  killed  John  just  as  it  nearly  killed  Mark 
Rutherford.  But  he  is  getting  over  it.  He  is 
learning  gradually,  I  think,  that  a  minister  can  only 
get  the  best  out  of  his  people  by  being  very  patient 
with  them,  just  as  the  people  can  only  get  the 
best  out  of  their  minister  by  being  very  patient 
with  him.  The  world  has  evidently  been  built 
that  way.  Jack  and  the  beanstalk  is  only  a  fairy- 
story  and  the  mango-tree  is  a  piece  of  Oriental 
trickery ;  there  is  no  room  for  such  prodigies  in  a 
world  like  this.  Like  the  lilies,  we  begin  in  a  very 
modest  way,  and  grow  very  slowly;  we  must 
therefore  exercise  infinite  patience  with  each  other. 
I  have  fancied  lately  that  some  inkling  of  this  has 
at  length  entered  into  the  mind  even  of  John  Sheer- 
good,  and  he  has  seemed  a  very  much  happier  man 
in  consequence. 


Ill 

OUR  LOST   ROMANCES 

THERE  are  few  days  in  a  girl's  life  more  critical  than 
the  day  on  which  the  sawdust  streams  from  the 
mangled  carcase  of  her  dearest  doll.  It  is  a  day 
of  bitter  disillusionment,  a  day  in  which  a  philosophy 
of  some  kind  is  painfully  born.  The  doll  came  into 
the  home  amidst  all  the  excitements  of  a  birthday. 
It  was  instantly  invested  with  every  attribute  of 
personality.  The  task  of  naming  it  was  as  solemn 
a  function  as  the  business  of  naming  a  baby.  And 
when  the  choice  had  been  made,  and  the  name 
selected,  that  name  was  as  unalterable  as  though 
it  had  been  officially  recorded  at  Somerset  House. 
By  that  name  it  was  greeted  with  delight  every 
morning  ;  by  that  name  it  was  hushed  to  sleep  every 
night ;  by  that  name  it  was  introduced  to  other 
dolls,  as  well  as  to  less  important  people ;  and  by 
that  name  it  was  addressed  a  hundred  times  a  day. 
The  doll  has  suffered  accidents  and  illnesses  after 
the  fashion  of  fleshier  folk ;  but  such  misadventures, 
as  is  the  way  with  humans,  has  only  rendered  her 
more  dear.  But  now  an  accident  has  happened, 
surpassing  in  seriousness  all  previous  misfortunes. 

134 


Our  Lost  Romances  135 

The  thing  has  come  to  pieces !  The  girl  has  a 
shapeless  rag  in  her  hand ;  the  floor  is  all  powdered 
with  sawdust ;  and  her  face  is  a  spectacle  for  men 
and  angels.  I  say  again  that  this  is  an  extremely 
critical  day  in  a  girl's  life,  and  upon  the  way  in 
which  she  negotiates  this  passage  in  her  history  a 
good  deal  will  eventually  depend. 

I  do  not  quite  know  why  I  have  made  the  feminine 
element  so  prominent  in  my  introduction.  Boys 
are  just  the  same.  They  affect  to  deride  a  girl's 
ridiculous  weakness  hi  cherishing  so  great  a  ten- 
derness for  a  doll ;  but,  for  all  their  supercilious 
airs,  they  have  illusions  of  their  own.  Dr.  Samuel 
Johnson  has  told  us  how,  as  a  boy,  he  consulted 
the  oracle  as  to  his  future  fortunes.  If  some  issue 
were  hanging  in  the  balance — a  game  to  be  played, 
or  an  examination  to  be  taken — he  would  endeavour 
to  wrest  from  the  unseen  the  secret  that  it  held. 
He  would  note  a  particular  stick  or  stone  on  the 
path  before  him ;  and  then,  with  face  turned  sky- 
wards, he  would  walk  towards  it.  If  he  trod  on  the 
object  which  he  had  chosen,  he  took  it  as  a  sign  that 
he  would  win  the  game  or  pass  the  examination 
that  was  causing  him  such  uneasiness.  If,  on  the 
other  hand,  he  stepped  clean  over  it,  he  interpreted 
it  as  a  sinister  prediction  of  disaster.  Dr.  Oliver 
Wendell  Holmes  confesses  to  a  similar  weakness. 
'  As  for  all  manner  of  superstitious  observances,' 


136  Our  Lost  Romances 

says  the  autocrat  of  the  Breakfast  Table,  '  I  used 
to  think  I  must  have  been  peculiar  in  having  such 
a  list  of  them ;  but  I  now  believe  that  half  the  chil- 
dren of  the  same  age  go  through  the  same  experience. 
No  Roman  soothsayer  ever  had  such  a  catalogue 
of  omens  as  I  found  in  the  Sibylline  leaves  of  my 
childhood.  That  trick  of  throwing  a  stone  at  a 
tree  and  attaching  some  mighty  issues  to  hitting  or 
missing,  which  you  will  find  mentioned  in  one  or 
more  biographies,  I  well  remember.'  And  Dr. 
Holmes  goes  on  to  give  us  a  good  deal  more  in  the 
same  strain. 

But,  although  they  do  not  record  it,  there  must 
have  come  to  both  Dr.  Johnson  and  Dr.  Holmes 
a  day  very  similar  to  that  on  which  the  sawdust 
streamed  from  the  mutilated  doll.  What  about 
the  day  on  which  young  Samuel  Johnson,  his 
scrofulous  face  and  screwed-up  eyes  turned  skywards, 
strode  along  the  path  towards  the  selected  talisman, 
stepped  plump  upon  it,  and  then  lost  the  game  that 
followed  after  all?  And  what  about  the  day  on 
which  young  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes,  impatiently 
awaiting  his  father's  return  from  Boston,  wondered 
if  his  parent  would  bring  him  the  pocket-knife  for 
which  he  had  so  long  and  loudly  clamoured  ?  But 
there,  not  fifty  yards  away,  was  a  tree ;  and  here,'1 
at  his  feet,  was  a  stone.  '  If  I  hit  it,  he'll  bring  it ; 
if  I  miss  it,  he  won't ! '  he  cried ;  and,  taking  more 


Our  Lost  Romances  137 

than  usually  careful  aim,  he  threw  the  stone,  and 
missed !  But  the  pocket-knife  was  in  his  father's 
handbag  all  the  same  !  Boys  or  girls,  men  or  women, 
it  matters  not ;  there  come  into  our  lives  great  and 
memorable  days  when  we  have  to  take  farewell  of 
our  illusions.  Our  romances  leave  us.  There  comes 
a  Christmas  Day  on  which,  to  our  uttermost  bewilder- 
ment, we  discover  the  secret  history  of  Santa  Claus. 
And  very  much  will  depend  upon  the  way  in  which 
we  face  such  sensational  and  eye-opening  experiences. 
We  go  through  life  leaving  these  shattered  romances 
behind  us.  Our  track  is  marked  by  the  spatter  of 
burst  bubbles.  What  then?  And  in  answer  to 
that  '  What  then  ? '  the  obvious  temptation  is 
the  temptation  to  cynicism.  Since  the  doll  has 
turned  out  to  be  a  mere  matter  of  sawdust  and 
rags,  since  the  talisman  on  the  footpath  told  a  lie, 
since  the  oracle  of  tree  and  stone  deceived  us,  we 
make  up  our  minds  to  fling  to  the  scrap-heap  such 
cherished  beliefs  as  we  still  retain.  We  go  in  for 
a  severe  weeding  out  of  everything  that  is  imagina- 
tive, everything  that  is  mystical,  everything  that 
is  romantic.  Life  resolves  itself  into  a  dreary  wilder- 
ness of  matter-of-fact,  an  arid  desert  of  common 
sense.  Dr.  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  was  wiser. 
Referring  to  his  oracular  stone-throwing  and  the 
rest  of  it,  he  says,  '  I  won't  swear  that  I  have  not 
some  tendency  to  these  unwise  practices  even  at 


138  Our  Lost  Romances 

this  present  date.  With  these  follies  mingled  sweet 
delusions,  which  I  loved  so  well  that  I  would  not 
outgrow  them,  even  when  it  required  a  voluntary 
effort  to  put  a  momentary  trust  in  them.'  It  is  a 
pity  to  sweep  all  our  rainbow-tinted  romances  out 
of  life  simply  because  one  of  them  has  been  reduced 
to  the  terms  of  rag  and  sawdust. 

There  stands  before  me  as  I  write  Sir  John  Millais' 
great  picture  of  '  Bubbles.'  Both  the  picture  and 
the  experience  that  it  portrays  are  wonderfully 
familiar.  The  curly  head ;  the  upturned  face ; 
the  entire  absorption  of  the  little  bubble-blower 
in  the  shining  balls  that  he  is  hurling  into  space ; 
the  half-formed  hope  that  this  one,  at  least,  may  not 
sputter  out  and  become  an  unbeautiful  splash  of 
soapsuds  on  the  floor ;  the  wistful  half-expectancy 
that  now,  at  last,  he  has  created  a  lovely  globe 
that  shall  float  on  and  on,  like  a  little  fairy-world, 
for  ever  and  for  evermore.  It  is  all  in  the  picture, 
as  every  beholder  has  observed ;  and  it  is  all  in  life. 
It  is  the  first  tragedy  of  infancy ;  it  is  the  last  tragedy 
of  age.  Bubbles ;  bubbles ;  bubbles ;  and  yet 
what  would  the  world  be  without  bubbles  ?  They 
burst,  of  course ;  but  we  are  the  happier  for  having 
blown  them  !  Our  dreams  may  never  come  true  ; 
but  it's  lovely  to  dream !  Illusions  are  part  of 
ife's  treasure-trove.  When  they  go,  they  leave 
nothing  behind  them.  When  we  lose  them,  we  lose 


Our  Lost  Romances  139 

everything.  It  is  almost  better  to  become  criminal 
than  to  become  cynical.  To  be  criminal  implies  an 
evil  hand ;  but  to  be  cynical  reveals  a  very  evil 
heart.  It  is  a  thousand  times  better  to  be  blowing 
bubbles  that,  though  fragile,  are  very  fair  than  to 
move  sulkily  about  the  world  telling  all  the  blowers 
of  bubbles  that  their  beautiful  bubbles  must  burst. 
*  I  want  to  forget ! '  cried  the  poor  little  '  Lady  of 
the  Decoration.'  '  I  want  to  begin  life  again  as  a 
girl  with  a  few  illusions  !  '  Every  fool  knows  that 
bubbles  must  burst.  The  man  who  feels  it  necessary 
to  tell  this  to  everybody  proves,  not  that  he  pos- 
sesses the  gift  of  prophecy,  but  that  he  lacks  the 
saving  grace  of  common  sense.  The  world  would 
clearly  be  very  much  the  poorer,  and  not  one  scrap 
the  richer,  if  no  bubbles  were  left  in  it.  It  is  alto- 
gether wholesome  to  have  a  fair  stock  of  illusions. 
But  at  this  point  two  serious  questions  press  for 
answer.  If  illusions  are  so  good,  why  do  they  fail  us  ? 
Why  are  our  bubbles  permitted  to  burst?  The 
question  answers  itself.  If  all  the  bubbles  that  had 
ever  been  blown  were  still  floating  about  the  world, 
there  would  be  nothing  so  commonplace  as  bubbles. 
That  is  why  the  era  of  miracles  ceased.  It  was  a 
very  romantic  phase  in  the  Church's  childhood,  and 
it  answers  to  the  superstitious  element  in  our  own. 
But  we  may  easily  exaggerate  its  value.  If  the 
age  of  miracles  had  been  indefinitely  lengthened, 


140  Our  Lost  Romances 

the  effect  would  have  been  the  same  as  if  all  the 
bubbles  became  everlasting.  If  all  the  bubbles 
that  had  ever  been  blown  were  with  us  still,  who 
to-day  would  want  to  blow  bubbles  ?  And  if 
miracles  had  once  become  commonplace,  their 
charm  and  significance  would  have  instantly  vanished. 
'  I  am  persuaded,'  Martin  Luther  sagely  declares, 
'  that  if  Moses  had  continued  his  working  of  miracles 
in  Egypt  for  two  or  three  years,  the  people  would 
have  been  so  accustomed  thereunto,  and  would  have 
so  lightly  esteemed  them,  that  they  would  have 
thought  no  more  of  the  miracles  of  Moses  than  we 
think  of  the  sun  or  the  moon.'  It  would  not  be 
hard  to  prove  that  even  the  miracles  of  the  New 
Testament  tended  to  lose  their  effect.  The  amaze- 
ment of  the  disciples  at  beholding  what  they  took 
to  be  a  ghost  on  the  water  is  attributed  to  the  fact 
that '  they  considered  not  the  miracle  of  the  loaves  ' 
which  had  taken  place  a  few  hours  earlier.  A 
miracle  was  already  so  much  a  matter  of  course 
that  the  memory  no  longer  treasured  it  as  something 
phenomenal^  No  pains  were  taken  to  investigate 
its  significance.  It  would  have  been  a  tragedy 
unspeakable  if  the  miraculous  element  in  the  faith 
had  become  universally  contemptible.  As  the  eagle 
carefully  builds  the  nest  in  which  her  eaglets  are  to 
see  the  light,  and  afterwards  as  carefully  destroys 
it  so  that  they  may  be  forced  to  fly,  so  our  illusions 


Our  Lost  Romances  141 

are  made  for  our  enjoyment,  and  then  dashed  to 
pieces  under  our  very  eyes.  Our  childhood  was 
enriched  beyond  calculation  by  the  fine  romances 
that  gave  it  such  bright  colours ;  and,  in  exactly 
the  same  way,  the  childhood  of  the  Church  was 
glorified  by  the  wonder-workings  of  a  Hand  Invisible. 
And  the  other  question  is  this :  What  shall  we 
do  when  our  illusions  leave  us  ?  When  the  doll 
turns  out  to  be  sawdust  and  rag,  when  the  youthful 
oracle  speaks  falsely,  when  the  bubble  bursts,  what 
then?  And  again  the  answer  is  obvious.  Why, 
to  be  sure,  if  one  romance  fails  us,  we  must  get  a 
better,  that  is  all !  Any  man  who  has  not  been 
soured  by  cynicism  will  confess  that  the  romantic 
tints  in  the  skein  of  life  have  deepened,  rather  than 
faded,  as  the  years  passed  on.  Surely,  surely, 
the  romance  of  youth  was  a  lovelier  thing  than  the 
romance  of  childhood  !  When  a  girl  feels  how  silly 
it  is  to  play  with  dolls,  she  begins  to  think  of  other 
things  that  will  more  appreciate  her  fondling. 
When  a  boy  sees  that  it  is  senseless  to  throw  stones 
at  trees  as  a  means  of  deciding  his  destiny,  he  takes 
to  tossing  precious  stones  and  pretty  trinkets  in 
quite  other  directions,  but  with  pretty  much  the 
same  end  in  view.  And  so  the  romance  of  life — if 
life  be  well  managed — increases  with  the  years, 
until,  by  the  time  we  become  grandfathers  and 
grandmothers,  the  world  seems  too  wonderful  for 


142  Our  Lost  Romances 

us,  and  we  stand  and  gaze  bewildered  at  all  its 
abounding  surprises.  Everything  depends  on  filling 
up  the  gaps.  As  soon  as  the  sawdust  streams 
out  of  the  doll,  as  soon  as  the  futility  of  the  oracle 
stands  exposed,  we  must  make  haste  to  fill  the 
vacant  place  with  something  better. 

Long,  long  ago  there  were  a  few  Jewish  Christians 
who  felt  just  as  a  girl  feels  when  the  component  parts 
of  her  dearest  doll  suddenly  fall  asunder,  just  as 
Samuel  Johnson  felt  when  the  talisman  prophesied 
falsely,  just  as  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  felt  when  he 
saw  that  he  could  trust  his  oracle  no  more.  They 
felt — those  Hebrew  believers — that  everything  had 
gone  from  them.  *  To  how  great  splendour,'  says 
Dr.  Meyer,  '  had  they  been  accustomed — marble 
courts,  throngs  of  white-robed  Levites,  splendid 
vestments,  the  state  and  pomp  of  symbol,  ceremonial 
and  choral  psalm !  And  to  what  a  contrast  were 
they  reduced — a  meeting  in  some  hall,  or  school, 
with  the  poor,  afflicted,  and  persecuted  members 
of  a  despised  and  hated  sect ! '  But  the  writer 
of  the  epistle  addressed  to  them  makes  it  his — or  her 
— principal  aim  to  point  out  that  it  is  all  a  mistake. 
Just  as  a  girl's  richest  romance  follows  upon  the 
disillusionment  of  the  terrible  sawdust,  so  the 
wealthiest  spiritual  heritage  of  these  Jewish  Chris- 
tians comes  to  them  in  place  of  the  things  that  they 
were  inclined  to  lament.  '  For,'  says  the  writer, 


Our  Lost  Romances  143 

'  ye  have  come  unto  Mount  Sion,  and  unto  the  city 
of  the  living  God,  the  heavenly  Jerusalem,  and  to 
an  innumerable  company  of  angels,  to  the  general 
assembly  and  church  of  the  firstborn,  which  are 
written  in  heaven,  and  to  God  the  Judge  of  all 
and  to  the  spirits  of  just  men  made  perfect,  and  to 
Jesus  the  mediator  of  the  new  covenant,  and  to  the 
blood  of  sprinkling,  that  speaketh  better  things  than 
that  of  Abel.'  And  whoever  finds  himself  the  heir 
of  so  fabulous  a  wealth  can  well  afford  to  smile  at 
all  his  earlier  disappointments. 


IV 
A  FORBIDDEN  DISH 


I  WAS  at  Wedge  Bay.  It  was  raining.  Wondering 
what  I  should  do,  I  remembered  the  great  caves 
along  the  shore.  For  ages  the  waves  had  been  at 
work  scooping  out  for  me  a  place  of  refuge  for  such 
a  day  as  this.  I  put  on  my  coat,  slipped  a  novel 
in  the  pocket,  and  set  off  along  the  sands.  I  soon 
found  a  sheltered  spot  in  which  I  was  able  to  defy 
the  weather,  and  to  watch  the  waves  or  read  my 
book  just  as  the  fancy  took  me.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  I  had  not  much  to  read.  The  book  was 
Sir  Walter  Scott's  Kenilworth,  and  the  bookmark 
was  already  near  the  end.  I  read  therefore  until, 
in  the  very  climax  of  the  tragic  close,  I  suddenly 
came  upon  a  text.  Or  perhaps  it  was  less  a  text 
than  a  reference  to  a  text,  casually  uttered  in  a 
moment  of  great  excitement  by  one  of  the  principal 
characters  in  the  story.  But  it  acted  on  my  mind 
as  the  lever  at  the  switch  acts  upon  the  oncoming 
railway  train.  In  a  flash,  the  novel  and  all  its 
railway  train.  In  a  flash,  the  novel  and  all  its 
thrilling  interest  were  left  far  behind,  and  I  was 

144 


A  Forbidden  Dish  145 

flying  along  an  entirely  new  track.  And  here  are 
the  words  that  so  adroitly  changed  the  current  of 
my  thought : 

'  "  Oh,  if  there  be  judgement  in  heaven,  thou  hast 
well  deserved  it,"  said  Foster,  "  and  wilt  meet  it ! 
Thou  hast  destroyed  her  by  means  of  her  best 
affections — it  is  a  seething  of  the  kid  in  the  mother's 
milk." 

Almost  involuntarily  I  closed  the  book,  slipped 
it  back  into  my  pocket,  and  sat  looking  out  to  sea 
lost  in  a  brown  but  interesting  study. 

II 

'  Thou  shall  not  seethe  a  kid  in  his  mother's  milk  I ' 
The  striking  prohibition  occurs  three  times — twice 
in  the  Book  of  Exodus,  and  once  in  the  Book  of 
Deuteronomy.  I  do  not  know  on  what  principle 
we  assess  the  relative  value  and  importance  of  texts  ; 
but,  surely,  a  great  commandment,  thrice  emphat- 
ically reiterated,  ought  not  to  be  treated  as  beneath 
our  notice.  I  find  that  the  interdict  applies  pri- 
marily to  an  ancient  Eastern  custom.  All  nations 
have  their  own  idea  as  to  the  special  delicacy  of 
certain  viands.  We  British  people  fancy  lamb  and 
sucking-pig,  and  feel  no  shame  in  destroying  the 
tiny  creatures  as  soon  as  they  are  born.  The 
predilection  of  the  Arab  was  for  a  new-born  kid; 

E 


146  A  Forbidden  Disfc 

and  when  he  wished  to  adorn  his  table  with  a  par- 
ticularly toothsome  morsel,  it  was  his  habit  to  serve 
up  the  kid  boiled  in  milk  taken  from  the  mother. 
It  was  against  this  favourite  and  familiar  dish  that 
the  stern  and  repeated  prohibition  was  launched. 
I  do  not  know  if  there  was  any  practical  or  utilitarian 
reason,  based  on  hygienic  or  medical  grounds,  for 
the  emphatic  decree.  Perhaps,  or  perhaps  not. 
Some  of  the  old  commandments  relating  to  animals 
seem  to  have  been  framed  for  no  other  purpose 
than  to  inculcate  a  certain  gentleness  and  courtesy 
in  our  attitude  towards  these  poorer  relatives  of 
ours.  '  Thou  shalt  not  kill  a  cow  and  her  calf  on 
the  same  day  ' ;  '  Thou  shalt  not  muzzle  the  ox  that 
treadeth  out  the  corn ' ;  and  so  on.  It  is  difficult 
to  see  any  real  reason  why  the  ewe  and  her  lamb, 
or  the  cow  and  her  calf,  should  not  go  to  the  sham- 
bles together.  But  it  was  strictly  forbidden.  And 
similarly,  '  Thou  shalt  not  seethe  a  kid  in  his  mother's 
milk.'  The  finer  feelings  are  certainly  shocked  at 
the  thought  of  the  cow  and  the  calf  going  together 
to  the  slaughter,  and  at  the  idea  of  boiling  the  newly 
born  and  newly  slain  kid  in  the  milk  of  its  mother ; 
and  the  most  obvious  moral  seems  to  be  that  we 
are  not  to  treat  the  creatures  of  the  field  and  the 
forest  in  any  way  that  grates  and  jars  upon  those 
finer  instincts.  As  I  sat  watching  the  foam  playing 
with  the  strands  of  seaweed,  it  seemed  to  me  that, 


A  Forbidden  Dish  147 

if  ever  I  am  asked  to  preach  in  support  of  the  Society 
for  the  Prevention  of  Cruelty  to  Animals,  I  should 
have  here  a  theme  all  ready  to  my  hand.  And  I 
felt  glad  that  I  had  read  Kenilworth. 

Ill 

But  the  prohibition  goes  much  farther  than  that. 
It  enshrines  a  tremendous  principle,  a  principle 
that  is  nowhere  else  so  clearly  stated.  Sir  Walter 
Scott  evidently  saw  that ;  and  no  exposition  could 
be  clearer  than  his.  The  circumstances  were, 
briefly,  these.  The  Countess  of  Leicester  was  a 
prisoner.  Just  outside  her  room  at  the  castle 
was  a  trapdoor.  It  was  supported  by  iron  bolts ; 
but  it  was  so  arranged  that  even  if  the  bolts  were 
drawn,  the  trapdoor  would  still  be  held  in  its  place 
by  springs.  Yet  the  weight  of  a  mouse  would  cause 
it  to  yield  and  to  precipitate  its  burden  into  the  vault 
below.  Varney  and  Foster  decided  to  draw  these 
bolts  so  that,  if  the  Countess  attempted  to  escape, 
the  trap  would  destroy  her.  Later  on,  Foster 
heard  the  tread  of  a  horse  in  the  court-yard,  and 
then  a  whistle  similar  to  that  which  was  the  Earl's 
usual  signal.  The  next  moment  the  Countess's 
chamber  opened,  and  instantly  the  trapdoor  gave 
way.  There  was  a  rushing  sound,  a  heavy  fall, 
a  faint  groan,  and  all  was  over  !  At  the  same 
instant  Varney  called  in  at  the  window,  '  Is  the 


148  A  Forbidden  Dish 

bird  caught  ?  Is  the  deed  done  ?  '  Deep  down 
in  the  vault  Foster  could  see  a  heap  of  white  clothes, 
like  a  snowdrift.  It  flashed  upon  him  that  the  noise 
that  he  had  heard  was  not  the  Earl's  signal  at  all, 
but  merely  Varney's  imitation,  designed  to  deceive 
the  Countess  and  lure  her  to  her  doom.  She  had 
rushed  out  to  welcome  her  husband,  and  had  miser- 
ably perished.  In  his  indignation,  Foster  turned 
upon  Varney.  '  Oh,  if  there  be  judgement  in 
heaven,  thou  hast  deserved  it,'  he  said,  'and  wilt 
meet  it!  Thou  hast  destroyed  her  by  means  of 
her  best  affections.  It  is  a  seething  of  the  kid  in  the 
mother's  milk  I ' 

At  that  touchstone  the  inner  meaning  of  the 
interdict  stands  revealed.  The  mother's  milk  is 
Nature's  beautiful  provision  for  the  life  and  susten- 
ance of  the  kid.  Thou  shalt  not  pervert  that  which 
was  intended  to  be  a  ministry  of  life  into  an  instru- 
ment of  destruction.  The  wifely  instinct  that  led 
the  Countess  to  rush  forth  to  welcome  her  lord  was 
one  of  the  loveliest  things  in  her  womanhood,  and 
Varney  used  it  as  the  agency  by  which  he  destroyed 
her.  She  was  lured  to  her  doom  by  means  of  her 
best  affections.  Charles  Lamb  points  out,  in  his 
Tales  from  Shakespeare,  that  lago  compassed  the 
death  of  the  fair  Desdemona  in  precisely  the  same 
way.  '  So  mischievously  did  this  artful  nllain 
lay  his  plots  to  turn  the  gentle  qualities  of  this 


A  Forbidden  Dish  149 

innocent  lady  into  her  destruction  and  make  a  net 
for  her  out  of  her  own  goodness  to  entrap  her  ! '  It 
is  this  that  the  prohibition  forbids.  Thou  shalt 
not  take  the  most  sacred  things  in  life  and  apply 
them  to  base  and  ignoble  ends.  Thou  shalt  not 
seethe  a  kid  in  his  mother's  milk. 


IV 

The  possibilities  of  application  are  simply  infinite. 
There  is  nothing  high  and  holy  that  cannot  be 
converted  into  an  engine  of  destruction.  A  girl 
is  fond  of  music.  The  impulse  is  a  lofty  and  admir- 
able one.  But  it  may  easily  be  used  to  lure  her 
away  from  the  best  things  into  a  life  of  frivolity, 
voluptuousness,  and  sensation.  A  boy  is  fond  of 
Nature.  He  loves  to  climb  the  mountain,  row  on 
the  river,  or  scour  the  bush.  Nothing  could  be 
better.  But  if  it  leads  him  to  forsake  the  place  of 
worship,  to  forget  God,  to  fling  to  the  winds  the 
faith  of  his  boyhood,  and  to  settle  down  to  a  life  of 
animalism  and  materialism,  he  has  been  destroyed 
by  means  of  his  best  affections.  Or  take  our  love 
of  society  and  of  revelry.  There  are  few  things  more 
enjoyable  than  to  sit  by  the  fireside,  or  on  the 
beach,  with  a  few  really  congenial  companions, 
to  talk,  and  tell  stories,  and  recall  old  times ;  to 
laugh,  to  eat,  and  to  drink  together.  Talking  and 


150  A  Forbidden  Dish 

laughing  and  eating  and  drinking  seem  inseparable 
at  such  times.  And  yet  out  of  that  human,  and 
therefore  divine,  impulse  see  the  evils  that  arise ! 
Look  at  our  great  national  drink  curse,  with  its 
tale  of  squalor  and  misery  and  shame  !  Did  these 
men  mean  to  be  drunkards  when  first  they  entered 
the  gaily  lit  bar-room  ?  Nothing  was  farther  from 
their  minds.  They  were  following  a  true  instinct — 
the  desire  for  companionship  and  congenial  society. 
They  have  been  lured  to  their  doom,  like  Sir  Walter 
Scott's  heroine,  by  means  of  their  best  affections. 


And  what  about  Love?  Love  is  a  lovely  thing, 
or  why  should  we  be  so  fond  of  love-stories  ?  The 
love  of  a  man  for  a  maid,  and  the  love  of  a  maid 
for  a  man,  are  surely  among  the  very  sweetest  and 
most  sacred  things  in  life.  No  story  is  so  fascinating 
as  the  story  of  a  courtship.  And  that  is  good, 
altogether  good.  Every  man  who  has  won  the 
affection  of  a  true,  sweet,  beautiful  girl  feels  that 
a  new  sanction  has  entered  into  life.  He  is  conscious 
of  a  new  stimulus  towards  purity  and  goodness. 
And  every  girl  who  has  won  the  heart  of  a  good, 
brave,  great-hearted  man  feels  that  life  has  become 
a  grander  and  a  holier  thing  for  her.  As  Shakes- 
peare says : 


A  Forbidden  Dish  151 

Indeed  I  know 

Of  no  more  subtle  master  under  heaven 
Than  is  the  maiden  passion  for  a  maid, 
Not  only  to  keep  down  the  base  in  man, 
But  to  teach  high  thoughts  and  amiable  words, 
And  courtliness,  and  the  desire  for  fame, 
And  love  of  truth,  and  all  that  makes  a  man. 

Lord  Lytton  illustrates  this  magic  force  in  his 
Last  Days  of  Pompeii.  He  tells  us  that  Glaucus, 
the  Athenian, '  had  seen  lone,  bright,  pure,  unsullied, 
in  the  midst  of  the  gayest  and  most  profligate 
gallants  of  Pompeii,  charming  rather  than  awing 
the  boldest  into  respect,  and  changing  the  very 
nature  of  the  most  sensual  and  the  least  ideal  as, 
by  her  intellectual  and  refining  spells,  she  reversed 
the  fable  of  Circe,  and  converted  the  animals  into 
men.'  Here,  then,  is  something  altogether  good. 
It  is  clearly  designed  to  minister  new  life  to  all  who 
come  beneath  its  spell.  And  yet  the  sordid  fact 
remains  that,  through  the  degradation  of  thig 
same  high  and  holy  impulse,  thousands  of  young 
people  make  sad  shipwreck. 

VI 

But  of  all  things  designed  to  minister  life  to  the 
world,  the  Cross  is  the  greatest  and  most  awful. 
Its  possibilities  of  regeneration  are  simply  infinite  ; 
and  in  its  case  the  danger  is  therefore  all  the  greater. 


152  A  Forbidden  Dish 

'  We  preach  Christ  crucified/  wrote  Paul,  '  unto  the 
Jews  a  stumbling-block,  and  unto  the  Greeks 
foolishness,  but  unto  them  which  are  called,  both 
Jews  and  Greeks,  Christ  the  power  of  God  and  the 
wisdom  of  God.'  It  is  the  most  urgent  and  insistent 
note  of  the  New  Testament  that  a  man  may  convert 
into  the  instrument  of  his  condemnation  and  de- 
struction that  awful  sacrifice  which  was  designed  for 
his  redemption.  It  is  the  sin  of  sins  ;  the  sin  unpar- 
donable ;  the  sin  so  impressively  forbidden  by  that 
ancient  and  thrice  reiterated  commandment  whose 
significance  Sir  Walter  Scott  pointed  out  to  me  in 
the  cave  by  the  side  of  the  sea. 


V 

AN   OLD   MAID'S   DIARY 

Christmas  Eve,  1973.  Christmas-time  once  more  ! 
The  season  strangely  stirs  the  memory,  and  the 
ghosts  of  Christmases  long  gone  by  haunt  my 
solitary  soul  to-night.  Somehow,  a  feeling  creeps 
over  me  that  this  Christmas  will  be  my  last.  Am 
I  sorry?  Yes,  one  cannot  help  feeling  sorry,  for 
life  is  very  sweet.  On  the  whole,  I  have  been  happy, 
and  have,  I  think,  done  good.  But  oh,  the  loneli- 
ness !  And  every  year  has  made  it  more  unbearable. 
The  friends  of  my  girlhood  have  married,  or  gone 
away,  or  died,  and  each  Christmas  has  made  this 
desperate  loneliness  more  hard  to  endure.  Did 
God  mean  women  to  come  into  the  world,  to  feel 
as  I  have  felt,  to  long  as  I  have  longed,  and  then, 
after  all,  to  die  as  I  must  die  ?  None  of  the  things 
for  which  women  seem  to  be  made  have  come  to  me. 
And  now  I  have  no  husband  to  shelter  me ;  no 
daughters  to  close  my  eyes;  no  tall  sons  to  bear 
this  poor  body  to  its  burial.  I  have  pretended  to 
satisfy  myself  by  mothering  other  people's  children  ; 
but  it  was  cruel  comfort,  and  often  only  made  my 
heart  to  ache  the  more.  And  now  it  is  nearly  over ; 

153 


154  An  Old  Maid's  Diary 

I  have  come  to  my  very  last  Christmas.  I  have 
always  loved  to  sit  by  the  fire  for  a  few  minutes 
before  lighting  the  lamp ;  and  to-night  as  I  do  so 
something  reminds  me  of  the  old  days  long  gone  by. 
This  little  room,  neat  and  cosy,  but  so  quiet  and 
so  lonely,  somehow  brings  back  to  my  mind  a  dream 
that  I  had  as  a  girl.  Was  it  one  dream,  or  was  it 
several?  Dear  me,  how  the  memory  begins  to 
piece  it  all  together  when  once  it  gets  a  start !  I 
wonder  if  I  can  trace  it  in  my  journal  ?  I  have 
always  kept  a  journal — just  for  company.  It 
runs  into  several  big  volumes  now,  and  the  hand- 
writing has  strangely  altered  with  the  years.  I 
shall  tear  them  all  up  and  burn  them  to-morrow ;  it 
will  be  one  way  of  spending  my  last  Christmas ! 
I  have  said  things  to  this  old  journal  of  mine  that  a 
woman  could  not  say  to  any  soul  alive.  It  has  done 
me  good  just  to  tell  these  old  books  all  about  it. 
But  my  dream  or  dreams ;  when  did  they  come  ? 
It  must  be  sixty  years  ago,  although,  despite 
my  loneliness,  it  really  does  not  seem  so  long.  But 
it  can  be  no  less,  for  it  was  in  the  days  of  the  Great 
War.  The  war  broke  out  in  1914 — I  was  eighteen 
then ! — but  my  dream  came  months  afterwards 
when  things  were  at  their  worst.  It  must  have 
been  in  1915.  I  remember  that  I  had  been  watching 
the  men  in  khaki.  Everybody  seemed  to  be  going  to 
the  front.  My  brothers  went ;  the  tradesmen  who 


An  Old  Maid's  Diary  155 

called  for  orders ;  the  men  who  served  us  in  the 
shops ;  everybody  was  enlisting.  All  our  menfolk 
had  become  soldiers.  And,  thinking  about  all  this, 
I  dreamed.  I  wonder  if  I  entered  it  in  my  journal? 
And,  if  so,  I  wonder  if  I  can  find  it  ?  Yes ;  here  it  is. 
Ah,  I  thought  so.  It  was  a  series  of  dreams ; 
night  after  night  for  a  week,  Sunday  alone  excepted. 
I  don't  know  why  no  dream  came  on  Sunday.  I 
will  copy  these  six  entries  here,  so  that  I  can  destroy 
the  old  volumes  with  their  secrets  without  making 
an  end  of  this.  The  dreams  began  on  Monday. 


Tuesday,  October  5,  1915.  I  had  such  a  strange 
dream  last  night.  I  thought  I  was  at  the  front. 
Whether  I  was  a  nurse  or  not  I  have  no  idea ;  but 
you  never  know  such  things  in  dreams.  Anyhow, 
I  was  there.  I  saw  Fred  and  Charlie  in  the  trenches 
as  plainly  as  I  have  ever  seen  anything,  and  Tom 
the  butcher-boy,  and  the  young  fellow  who  used  to 
bring  the  groceries.  And  with  them,  and  evidently 
on  the  best  of  terms  with  them,  I  saw  a  tall  fellow 
with  fair  hair — such  a  gentlemanly  fellow  ! — and 
after  I  had  seen  him  I  seemed  to  have  no  eyes  for 
the  others.  If  I  looked  to  Fred,  he  only  pointed  to 
the  boy  with  the  fair  hair.  If  I  turned  to  Charlie, 
he  nodded  to  the  lad  with  the  fair  hair.  Tom  and 
the  grocer's  assistant  did  the  same.  And  then  the 


156  An  Old  Maid's  Diary 

fellow  with  the  fair  hair  looked  up,  and  I  saw  his 
face — such  a  handsome  face  !  He  smiled — such 
a  lovely  smile ! — and  I  felt  myself  blush.  My 
confusion  awoke  me  ;  and  I  knew  it  was  a  dream. 

Wednesday,  October  6,  1915.  Would  you  believe 
it,  you  credulous  old  journal,  I  dreamed  of  my 
white-haired  boy  again  last  night !  Isn't  it  silly  ? 
He  was  home  from  the  war,  wounded,  but  well  again. 
And  we  were  being  married ;  only  think  of  it ! 
I  can  see  it  all  now  as  plainly  as  I  can  see  the  white 
page  before  me  as  I  write.  The  commotion  at 
home ;  the  drive  to  the  church ;  the  church  itself ; 
the  ceremony  ;  how  plain  it  all  was  !  Fred  was 
best  man ;  my  white-haired  boy  evidently  had  no 
brothers.  Jessie,  my  own  sweet  little  sister,  was 
my  bridesmaid,  although  she  looked  a  good  deal 
older.  It  seemed  funny  to  see  her  with  her  hair 
up,  and  with  long  skirts.  The  church  seemed  full 
of  soldiers.  Everybody  who  had  known  him,  served 
with  him,  camped  with  him,  or  fought  with  him, 
simply  worshipped  him.  At  weddings  I  have  always 
looked  at  the  bride,  and  taken  very  little  notice  of 
the  bridegroom.  But  at  our  wedding  everybody 
was  looking  at  my  white-haired  boy — so  tall,  so 
handsome,  so  fine — like  a  knight  out  of  one  of  the 
tales  of  chivalry.  And  I  was  glad  that  they  were 
all  looking  at  him.  And  I  was  so  happy,  oh,  so 


An  Old  Maid's  Diary  157 

very,  very  happy !  I  was  happy  to  think  that 
everybody  was  so  proud  of  my  white-haired  boy. 
And  I  was  still  more  happy  to  think  that  my  white- 
haired  boy  was  mine,  my  very,  very  own.  I  was 
so  happy  that  I  cried,  cried  as  though  my  heart 
would  break  for  joy  and  pride  and  thankfulness. 
And  my  crying  must  have  awakened  me,  for  when 
I  sat  up  and  stared  round  my  old  bedroom  in  surprise 
there  were  tears  in  my  eyes  still.  I  wonder  if  I 
shall  ever  dream  of  my  bridegroom  again? 

Thursday,  October  7,  1915.  I  did ;  I  really  did ! 
I  dreamed  of  him  again  !  I  saw  the  home  in  which 
we  lived,  a  beautiful,  beautiful  home.  I  do  not 
mean  that  it  was  big,  but  that  it  was  sweet  and 
comfortable,  and  everything  so  nice !  I  thought 
that  he  was  walking  with  me  on  the  lawn.  He 
was  older,  a  good  bit  older ;  I  should  think  twice 
as  old  as  when  I  first  saw  him  in  the  trenches.  But 
he  was  still  the  same,  still  tall,  still  fair,  and  oh,  such 
a  perfect  gentleman !  What  care  he  took  of  me  ! 
How  proud  and  devoted  he  seemed !  And  how  he 
gloried  in  the  children  !  For  I  thought  we  had 
children,  five  of  them  !  The  eldest  and  the  youngest 
were  boys,  Arthur,  so  like  his  father  as  I  saw  him 
first,  and  the  youngest,  Harry,  such  a  romp !  The 
three  girls,  too,  were  the  light  of  his  eyes  and  the 
brightness  of  his  life.  What  times  we  all  had 


153  An  Old  Maid's  Diary 

together !  I  saw  him  once  scampering  across  the 
fields  with  the  children,  whilst  I  sat  among  the 
cowslips  knitting  and  awaiting  the  return  of  my 
merry  madcaps.  I  saw  him  sitting  with  the  rest  of 
us  around  the  fire  in  winter,  whilst  he  told  tales 
of  the  things  that  he  did  at  the  war.  How  the  boys 
listened,  almost  worshipping !  And  again  I  saw 
him  on  the  Sunday  at  the  church.  He  sat  next  the 
aisle.  I  was  so  happy  in  being  beside  him,  with 
the  children  on  my  right.  What  more,  I  wondered, 
could  any  woman  want  to  fill  her  cup  up  to  the 
brim  ?  And,  wondering,  I  awoke. 

Friday,  October  8,  1915.  My  dreams  are  getting 
to  be  like  parts  of  a  serial  story.  How  real  my 
white-haired  boy  seems  to  be !  He  has  come  into 
my  life,  and  I  cannot  believe  that  he  is  only  a 
dream-thing.  I  went  for  a  walk  yesterday  with 
mother  and  Jessie,  and  they  said  I  was  silent  and 
absent-minded.  The  truth  was  that  I  was  thinking 
about  him,  yet  how  could  I  tell  them?  Nobody 
knows  but  my  journal  and  myself.  And  last  night 
— it  seems  scarcely  possible — I  saw  him  again ! 
It  was  not  quite  so  nice,  for  I  thought  we  were  very 
old.  He  was  no  longer  tall  and  erect,  but  slightly 
bent,  though  stately  still.  And  I  leaned  heavily 
upon  his  arm.  And  the  children  came,  and  brought 
their  children — such  a  lot  of  them  there  seemed  to 


An  Old  Maid's  Diary  159 

be.  He  grew  as  young  as  ever  in  playing  with 
these  troops  of  happy  little  people.  And  for  them 
there  was  no  fun  like  a  game  with  grandpapa.  And 
as  I  sat  and  watched  them,  I  liked  to  think  that  all 
these  boys  and  girls  would  have  something  of  him 
about  them,  and  would  grow  up  to  cherish  his  dear 
memory  as  their  ideal  of  all  that  a  Christian  gentle- 
man should  be.  And  sometimes  I  thought  of  their 
children,  and  their  children's  children,  till  I  saw, 
floating  before  my  fancy,  hundreds  and  thousands 
of  children  yet  to  be ;  and  I  speculated  idly  as  to 
how  far  his  fine  influence  would  carry  down  these 
coming  generations.  And  once  more  I  awoke. 

Saturday,  October  g,  1915.  Oh,  my  journal,  my 
journal !  I  dreamed  of  my  white-haired  boy  again ! 
How  I  wish  I  never  had  !  If  only  I  had  always  been 
able  to  think  of  him  as  I  saw  him  on  Wednesday 
night  and  Thursday !  I  was  once  more  at  the 
war.  You  know  what  funny  things  dreams  are. 
In  the  trenches  I  again  saw  Fred  and  Charlie  and 
Tom  the  butcher-boy,  and  the  young  fellow  who 
used  to  bring  the  groceries.  But  this  tune  they  were 
all  in  action ;  when  I  saw  them  before  they  were 
resting.  The  air  was  heavy  with  battle-smoke ; 
the  great  guns  roared  and  reverberated ;  shells 
screamed  and  burst  about  me.  It  was  like  night, 
although  I  knew  that  it  was  daytime.  As  I  stood 


ibo  An  Old  Maid's  Diary 

and  watched — looking  for  somebody — four  Red 
Cross  men  passed  me.  They  were  bearing  a  stretcher, 
and  on  the  stretcher  was  a  mangled  form.  His 
face  was  hidden  by  his  arm,  half  lying  across  his 
eyes.  A  strange  impulse  seized  me.  I  sprang 
forward,  raised  his  arm  in  the  semi-darkness; 
there  was  a  sudden  flash  caused  by  I  know  not 
what,  and  in  the  light  of  that  fearful  and  revealing 
flash  I  recognized  my  white-haired  boy  !  I  trudged 
beside  the  stretcher  to  the  hospital,  knowing  neither 
what  I  did  nor  what  I  said.  And  when  we  reached 
the  hospital,  my  white-haired  boy  was  dead  !  My 
white-haired  boy,  my  white-haired  boy,  my  white- 
haired  boy  was  dead !  Oh  that  I  had  never 
dreamed  again  ! 

Sunday,  October  10,  1915.  I  dreamed  once  more, 
but  not  of  my  white-haired  boy.  I  dreamed  of 
myself  ;  pity  me  that  I  had  nothing  better  to  dream 
of  !  I  am  only  a  girl ;  but  in  my  dream  I  saw  myself 
an  old  woman,  old  and  lonely !  Oh,  so  very,  very 
lonely !  I  was  sitting,  I  thought,  in  the  dusk 
beside  a  bright  and  cheery  fire  in  a  neat  and  cosy 
little  room.  Neat  and  cosy,  but  oh,  so  lonely ; 
and  I  felt  sorry  for  myself,  very  sorry.  For  the 
self  that  I  saw  in  my  dream  was  a  sad  old  self,  a 
disappointed  old  self,  a  self  that  had  fought  bravely 
against  being  soured,  but  a  self  that  had,  after  all, 


An  Old  Maid's  Diary  161 

only  partly  succeeded.  It  was  not  a  nice  dream ; 
the  nice  dreams  that  I  had  earlier  in  the  week  will 
never  come  again.  No,  it  was  not  a  nice  dream,  and 
I  awoke  feeling  uneasy  and  unhappy  ;  and  my  head 
was  aching. 


Christmas  Eve,  1973.  And  so,  with  a  shaky, 
withered  hand,  I  have  copied  into  the  last  pages  of 
my  journal  the  entries  that  I  made  in  the  first  of 
these  old  volumes.  What  did  they  mean,  those 
dreams  that  came  to  me  so  long  ago  ?  Was  there  a 
white-haired  boy  at  the  war,  a  white-haired  boy 
who,  if  there  had  been  no  war,  or  if  just  one  cruel 
shell  had  failed  to  explode,  would  have  been  the 
glory  of  my  life  and  the  father  of  my  children  ? 
But  there  was  a  war,  and  the  fatal  shell  did  burst, 
and  my  white-haired  boy  and  I  never  met,  never 
met.  The  five  happy  children — those  two  fine 
boys  and  the  three  lovely  girls — will  never  now 
gladden  these  dim  old  eyes  of  mine.  Those  troops 
of  grandchildren,  and  those  hosts  of  unborn  genera- 
tions that  I  saw  in  my  happy  fancy,  will  never  leave 
the  land  of  dreams  and  alight  on  this  old  world. 
In  the  days  of  the  war,  I  remember  how  people  wept 
with  the  widows,  and  sorrowed  with  the  mothers 
whose  brave  sons  were  stricken  down.  And,  God 
knows,  none  of  that  sympathy  was  wasted.  Oh, 

L 


162  An  Old  Maid's  Diary 

it  was  heart-breaking  to  see  the  lusty  women  who 
would  never  see  their  husbands  again ;  and  the 
broken  mothers  who  would  never  even  have  the 
poor  consolation  of  visiting  the  graves  of  their  fallen 
sons.  And  I  was  only  a  girl,  a  girl  of  nineteen. 
And  nobody  wept  with  me.  I  did  not  even  weep 
for  myself.  Nobody  knew  about  my  white-haired 
boy.  I  did  not  know.  But  I  know  now.  Yes, 
I  know  now.  And  God  knows;  I  pillow  my  poor 
tired  old  head  on  that,  God  knows,  God  knows  \ 
And  so  this,  then,  is  to  be  my  last  Christmas  ! 
Ah,  well,  so  be  it !  And  perhaps — who  can  tell  ? — 
perhaps,  in  a  world  where  we  women  shall  know 
neither  wars,  nor  weddings,  nor  widowhood,  I  shall 
before  next  Christmas  have  found  the  face  of  my 
girlish  dreams ! 


VI 

THE  RIVER 

IT  is  my  great  good  fortune  to  dwell  on  the  green 
and  picturesque  banks  of  a  broad  and  noble  river. 
'  Rivers,'  says  an  old  Spanish  proverb  which  Izaak 
Walton  quotes  with  a  fine  smack  of  approval, 
'  rivers  were  made  for  wise  men  to  contemplate 
and  for  fools  to  pass  by  without  consideration.' 
Let  us  beware  lest  we  fall  beneath  the  Spaniard's 
lash.  For  myself,  I  can  at  least  affirm  that  I  never 
saunter  beside  these  blue,  fast-flowing  waters  without 
feeling  that  the  lines  have  fallen  unto  me  in  pleasant 
places.  It  is  wonderful  how,  after  awhile,  the 
winding  river  seems  to  weave  itself  into  the  very 
texture  and  fabric  of  one's  life.  You  stroll  by  it, 
bathe  in  it,  row  on  it,  fish  in  it,  until  every  rock  and 
every  bank,  every  crag  and  every  cliff,  every  twist 
and  every  bay,  every  deep  and  every  shallow,  takes 
its  place  among  the  intimacies  and  fond  familiarities 
of  life.  It  is  one  of  the  wonders  of  the  world  that 
this  little  island  in  the  southern  seas  should  pour  into 
the  Pacific  so  many  fine  majestic  streams.  And 
here,  beside  the  lordliest  of  them  all,  I  have  made 

163 


164  The  River 

my  home.  It  is  good  to  stand  on  these  green  banks, 
to  survey  the  great  expanse  of  gleaming  water?, 
and  to  see  the  stately  ships  glide  in  and  out.  1 
often  think  of  that  early  morning  when  John  Forster 
found  Carlyle  standing  beside  the  Thames  at  Chel- 
sea, lost  in  an  evident  reverie  of  admiration.  '  I 
should  as  soon  have  thought  of  assaulting  him  as 
of  addressing  him,'  says  Forster.  To  be  sure  !  We 
do  lots  of  things  in  this  life  of  which  we  have  no 
reason  to  be  ashamed,  things  that  are  indeed  alto- 
gether to  our  credit,  yet  hi  the  performance  of  which 
we  do  not  care  to  be  discovered.  It  would  be  a 
sad  old  world,  for  example,  if  love-making  went  out 
of  fashion ;  but  no  man  cares  to  be  caught  in  the 
act,  for  all  that.  Carlyle  was  caught  making  love 
to  the  Thames,  as  I  have  often  made  love  to  the 
Derwent,  and  he  keenly  resented  the  intrusion. 
'  He  abruptly  turned  away,'  adds  the  offender, 
'  and  moved  across  the  roadway  toward  Cheyne  Row, 
with  that  curious  slow  shuffle  habitual  with  him, 
and  I  saw  him  no  more.' 

Why,  my  very  Bible  seems  a  new  book  as  I  ponder 
its  pages  by  the  banks  of  the  Derwent.  What  a 
different  story  the  Old  Testament  would  have  had 
to  tell  if  Jesusalem  had  stood  by  the  side  of  a  river 
like  this  !  The  Jews  never  forgave  the  frowning 
Providence  that  denied  to  their  fair  city  a  river. 
They  heard  how  Babylon  stood  proudly  surveying 


The  River  165 

the  shining  waters  of  the  Euphrates,  how  Nineveh 
was  beautified  by  the  lordly  Tigris,  how  Thebes 
glittered  in  stately  grandeur  on  the  Nile,  and  how 
Rome  sat  in  state  beside  the  Tiber ;  and  they  were 
consumed  with  envy  because  no  broad  river  pro- 
tected them  from  their  foes,  and  bore  to  their  gates 
the  wealthy  merchandise  of  many  lands.  I  never 
noticed  until  I  dwelt  by  these  blue  waters  how  all 
the  Psalms  and  prophecies  are  coloured  by  this 
phase  of  Judean  life.  The  prophets  were  for  ever 
dreaming  of  the  river ;  the  psalmists  were  for  ever 
singing  of  the  river.  Nothing  delighted  the  people 
like  a  vision,  such  as  visited  Ezekiel,  of  a  broad  river 
rushing  out  from  Jerusalem.  No  greater  or  more 
glowing  message  ever  reached  the  disconsolate  and 
riverless  people  than  when  Isaiah  proclaimed, 
'  The  glorious  Lord  will  be  unto  us  a  place  of  broad 
rivers  and  streams,  wherein  shall  go  no  galley  with 
oars,  neither  shall  gallant  ship  pass  thereby ! ' 
Jehovah,  that  is  to  say,  shall  impart  to  Jerusalem 
all  the  advantages  of  a  river  without  any  of  its 
attendant  dangers.  Many  a  faithless  river,  by 
bearing  the  destroyer  on  its  bosom  to  the  city 
gates,  had  proved  the  undoing  of  the  people 
after  all.  But  no  such  fate  shall  overwhelm 
Jerusalem.  And,  hearing  this,  the  riverless  city 
was  comforted. 
It  is  recorded  of  the  Right.  Hon.  John  Burns 


166  The  River 

that,  in  the  days  when  he  was  President  of  the  Local 
Government  Board,  he  found  himself  strolling  on 
the  Terrace  of  the  House  of  Commons,  surveying, 
with  all  the  transports  of  a  born  Londoner,  the 
shining  waters  of  the  Thames.  His  reverie  was, 
however,  rudely  interrupted  by  a  supercilious 
American  who  was  inclined  to  regard  with  scornful 
contempt  the  object  of  Mr.  Burns'  ecstatic  admira- 
tion. '  After  all,'  the  American  demanded,  '  what  is 
it  but  a  ditch  compared  with  the  Missouri  or  the 
Mississippi  ?  '  This  was  more  than  even  a  Cabinet 
Minister  could  be  expected  to  stand.  '  The  Missouri 
and  the  Mississippi ! '  Mr.  Burns  exclaimed  in  a  fine 
burst  of  patriotic  indignation.  '  The  Missouri  and 
the  Mississippi  are  water,  sir,  and  nothing  but  water  ; 
but  that/  pointing  to  the  Thames, '  that,  sir,  is  liquid 
history,  liquid  history  \ '  Yes,  Mr.  Burns  is  quite 
light.  The  Thames  has  a  glory  of  its  own  among 
the  world's  historic  streams,  although  it  is  only  a 
matter  of  degree.  All  rivers  are  liquid  history. 
The  records  of  the  world's  great  rivers  constitute 
themselves,  to  all  intents  and  purposes,  the  history 
of  the  race.  To  take  a  single  illustration,  it  is 
obvious  that  the  student  who  has  mastered  the 
history  and  hydrography  of  the  Niger,  the  Congo, 
the  Zambesi,  the  Orange,  and  the  Nile  has  little 
more  to  learn  about  Africa.  From  the  times  of 
which  Herodotus  writes,  when  Cyrus  lost  his  temper 


The  River  167 

with  the  Tigris,  and  turned  it  out  of  its  channel  for 
drowning  one  of  his  sacred  white  horses,  rivers  have 
loomed  very  largely  in  the  annals  of  human  history. 
Indeed,  Professor  Shailer  Mathews,  in  The  Making 
of  To-morrow,  says  that  there  never  was,  until 
recent  times,  a  nation  that  did  not  paddle  or  sail 
its  way  into  history.  Civilization,  he  says,  got  its 
first  start  on  water.  '  In  the  early  days  rivers  were 
thoroughfares,  and  they  continued  to  be  thorough- 
fares until  the  middle  of  last  century.  Even  the 
United  States  was  born  on  water.  It  was  easier  to 
get  to  New  Orleans  from  Montreal  by  way  of  the 
Mississippi  than  overland.'  One  has  only  to  conjure 
up  the  wealthy  historical  traditions  that  cluster 
about  the  names  of  the  Euphrates  and  the  Nile, 
the  Indus  and  the  Volga,  the  Rhine  and  the  Danube, 
the  Tiber  and  the  Thames,  in  order  to  convince 
himself  that  the  records  of  the  world's  great  water- 
ways are  inextricably  interwoven  with  the  annals 
of  the  human  race. 

We  cannot,  however,  disguise  from  ourselves  the 
fact  that  the  affection  that  we  feel  for  our  rivers  is 
not  based  solely,  or  even  primarily,  on  utilitarian 
considerations.  Nobody  supposes  that  it  is  the 
navigable  qualities  of  the  Ganges  that  have  led  the 
Hindus  to  believe  that  to  die  on  its  banks,  or  to  drink 
before  death  of  its  waters,  is  to  secure  to  themselves 
everlasting  felicity.  Yet,  when  we  attempt  to 


i68  The  River 

account  in  so  many  words  for  the  fascination  of 
the  river,  the  task  becomes  intricate  and  difficult. 
Macaulay  spent  his  thirty-eighth  birthday  on  the 
banks  of  the  Rhone,  and  transferred  his  impressions 
to  his  journal.  '  I  was  delighted,'  he  says,  '  by  my 
first  sight  of  the  blue,  rushing,  healthful-looking 
river.  I  thought,  as  I  wandered  along  the  quay, 
of  the  singular  love  and  veneration  which  rivers 
excite  in  those  who  live  on  their  banks ;  of  the 
feeling  of  the  Hindus  about  the  Ganges,  of  the 
Hebrews  about  the  Jordan,  of  the  Egyptians  about 
the  Nile,  of  the  Romans  about  the  Tiber,  and  of 
the  Germans  about  the  Rhine.  Is  it  that  rivers  have, 
in  a  greater  degree  than  almost  any  other  inanimate 
object,  the  appearance  of  animation,  and  something 
resembling  character?  They  are  sometimes  slow 
and  dark-looking  ;  sometimes  fierce  and  impetuous  ; 
sometimes  bright,  dancing,  and  almost  flippant.' 
However  that  may  be,  the  fact  itself  remains ; 
and  it  is  surprising  that  our  literature  does  not 
more  adequately  reflect  this  marked  peculiarity. 
Macaulay  himself  felt  the  lack,  and  dreamed  of 
writing  a  great  epic  poem  on  the  Thames.  '  I 
wonder,'  he  said, '  that  no  poet  has  thought  of  writing 
such  a  poem.  Surely  there  is  no  finer  subject  of 
the  sort  than  the  whole  course  of  the  river  from 
Oxford  downwards.'  But  a  century  has  gone  by» 
and  the  poem  has  not  been  penned.  Shakespeare 


The  River  169 

dwelt  beside  the  Avon ;  Goethe  loved  to  stroll 
among  the  willows  on  the  banks  of  the  Lahn ; 
Coleridge  was  born,  and  spent  the  most  impression- 
able years  of  his  life  in  the  beautiful  valley  of  the 
Otter.  And  one  of  the  tenderest  idylls  of  our 
literary  history  is  the  picture  of  Wordsworth  wan- 
dering hand  in  hand  with  Dorothy  among  the 
most  delightful  river  scenery  of  which  even 
England  can  boast.  Yet,  beyond  a  few  sonnets 
and  snippets,  nothing  came  of  it  all.  Neither  the 
laughing  little  streams  nor  the  more  majestic 
and  historic  waterways  have  ever  yet  found  their 
laureates. 

But  there  are  compensations.  If  the  bards  have 
been  strangely  and  unaccountably  irresponsive  to 
the  music  of  the  waters,  our  great  prose  writers 
have  caught  its  murmur  and  its  meaning.  Two  par- 
ticularly, John  Bunyan  and  Rudyard  Kipling,  have 
given  us  the  classics  of  the  river.  Bunyan's  river — 
the  river  that  all  the  pilgrims  had  to  cross — is  too 
familiar  to  need  more  than  the  merest  mention. 
And  as  for  Mr.  Kipling,  he,  like  Bunyan,  is 
a  writer  of  both  poetry  and  prose.  As  a  poet 
he  has  failed  to  do  justice  to  the  river,  as  all 
the  poets  have  failed.  He  has  given  us  a 
snippet,  as  all  the  poets  have  done.  He  makes 
the  Thames  tells  its  own  tale,  and  a  wonderful 
tale  it  is. 


170  The  River 

I  remember  the  bat-winged  lizard  birds, 

The  Age  of  Ice  and  the  mammoth  herds ; 

And  the  giant  tigers  that  stalked  them  down 

Through  Regent's  Park  into  Camden  Town  ; 

And  I  remember  like  yesterday 

The  earliest  Cockney  who  came  my  way, 

When   he   pushed   through  the  forest  that  lined   the 

Strand, 
With  paint  on  his  face  and  a  club  in  his  hand. 

But  I  forgave  Kipling  for  not  having  repaired  the 
omission  of  the  older  poets  when  I  read  Kim.  Kim 
is  the  greatest  story  of  a  river  that  has  ever  been 
written.  Who  can  forget  the  old  lama  and  his  long, 
long  search  for  the  River?  Buddha,  he  thought, 
once  took  a  bow  and  fired  an  arrow  from  its  string, 
and,  where  that  arrow  fell,  there  sprang  up  a  river 
'  whose  nature,  by  our  Lord's  beneficence,  is  that 
whoso  bathes  in  it  washes  away  all  taint  and  speckle 
of  sin.'  And  so,  through  Mr.  Kipling's  four  hundred 
vivid  pages,  there  wanders  the  old  lama,  through 
city  and  rice-fields,  over  hills  and  across  plains, 
asking,  always  asking,  one  everlasting  question : 
'  The  River ;  the  River  of  the  Arrow ;  the  River  that 
can  cleanse  from  Sin;  where  is  the  River?  Where, 
oh,  where  is  the  River  ? '  All  India,  all  the  world 
seems  to  enter  into  that  ceaseless  cry.  It  is  the 
deepest,  oldest,  latest  cry  of  the  universal  heart : 
'  The  River ;  the  River  of  the  Arrow ;  the  River 


The  River  171 

that  can  cleanse  from  Sin ;  where  is  the  River  ? 
Where,  oh,  where  is  the  River  ? '  And  it  is  the 
Church's  unspeakable  privilege  to  take  the  old  lama's 
h  ind  and  to  point  his  sparkling  eyes  to  the  cleansing 
fountains. 


VII 
FACES  IN  THE  FIRE 

IT  was  half-past  ten  !  I  had  no  idea  it  was  so  late  ! 
Our  little  camp  was  pitched  about  four  miles  up 
Captain's  Gully,  under  the  massive  shelter  of  Bui- 
man's  Ridge.  It  had  been  a  perfect,  cloudless  day ; 
all  our  excursions — fishing,  shooting,  botanizing, 
and  the  rest — had  been  crowned  with  delightful 
success ;  and  after  supper  we  sat  round  the  great 
camp  fire,  talking.  We  talked,  of  course,  of  the 
only  things  ever  discussed  around  camp  fires — old 
times  and  old  faces.  I  was  struck  with  the  number 

of  sentences   that  began  '  /   remember   once .' 

Then,  one  by  one,  the  others  stole  away  to  their 
tents — those  little  white  tents  that  had  looked 
like  stray  snowflakes  in  a  wilderness  of  bush  when- 
ever we  caught  sight  of  them  from  the  hills  in  the 
daytime,  yet  which  seemed  all  the  world  to  us  at 
night.  One  by  one,  with  a  '  Here's  off  ! '  or  a  '  So 
long  ! '  the  others  had  slipped  quietly  away,  and  the 
fire  and  I  were  at  last  left  to  ourselves.  How 
still  it  all  was  !  Now  and  then  I  heard  the  queer 
cry  of  a  mopoke  up  the  gully ;  and  once  there  was 
the  swish  of  a  bough  beneath  the  leap  of  a  'possum. 

IM 


Faces  in  the  Fire  173 

But,  save  for  these,  I  could  hear  no  sound  but  the 
subdued  hissing  and  rumbling  of  the  logs  as  they 
crumpled  up  in  the  fire  before  me.  I  remained  for 
awhile,  looking  into  the  glowing  embers  ;  and  there, 
in  the  dying  fire,  the  faces  of  my  companions  all  came 
back  to  me.  And  not  theirs  alone  ;  for  I  saw,  too, 
the  old  familiar  faces  of  which  we  had  been  chatting, 
and  a  hundred  others  as  well.  It  was  then  that  I 
was  startled  by  the  'possum  in  the  branches  over- 
head. I  looked  at  my  watch  ;  it  was  half-past  ten  ; 
and  I  too  turned  my  back  on  the  fire  that  had 
revealed  so  much.  And  I  wondered,  as  I  moved 
away  to  my  tent,  why,  by  the  side  of  the  fire,  we 
always  think  of  the  Past,  dream  of  the  Past,  talk 
of  the  Past.  Why  do  our  yesterdays  all  spring  to 
new  and  glorious  life  when  the  flickering  flames  are 
lighting  up  our  faces  ? 

Our  camp  broke  up  a  day  or  two  later ;  and  all  such 
thoughts  seemed  to  have  died  with  the  fire  that  gave 
them  birth.  But,  oddly  enough,  they  returned  to 
me  this  morning.  For,  when  I  arose,  I  was  conscious 
of  a  distinct  snap  of  winter  in  the  atmosphere ; 
and  when  I  entered  the  study  I  discovered  that  the 
divinity  who  presides  over  such  matters  had  lit 
the  first  fire  of  another  year.  I  saluted  it  with 
pleasure,  not  merely  for  the  sake  of  the  comfort  it 
promised  me,  but  for  its  own  sake.  I  greeted  it  as 
one  greets  an  old  and  trusted  friend.  On  this  side 


174  Faces  in  the  Fire 

of  the  world  we  scarcely  know  what  winter  means, 
and  we  are  therefore  in  danger  of  underestimating 
the  historic  value  of  the  fire.  We  can  produce  no- 
thing in  Australia  worthy  of  comparison  with  those 
stern  winters  with  which  Northern  and  Western 
writers  have  made  us  so  familiar.  We  are  accus- 
tomed to  a  literature  which  pours  in  upon  us  from 
high  Northern  latitudes,  and  which  describes,  with 
a  picturesque  realism  that  evokes  a  sympathetic 
shiver,  the  glacial  snowdrifts  that,  for  weeks  on 
end,  lie  deep  along  the  hedgerows ;  the  hapless  bird 
that  falls,  frozen  to  death,  from  the  leafless  bough ; 
the  rabbit  that  perishes  of  slow  starvation  in  its 
wretched  burrow ;  and  the  fish  that  floats  in  stupor 
beneath  the  very  ice  that  furnishes  the  skater's 
paradise.  But  whilst,  to  us,  snow  and  ice  are  things 
of  imagination  or  of  memory,  I  felt  thankful  this 
morning,  as  I  knelt  down  like  some  old  fire-worship- 
per and  warmed  my  numb  hands  at  the  cheerful 
blaze,  that  this  Tasmanian  winter  of  ours  has  just 
enough  sting  in  it  to  preserve  in  me  a  lively  appre- 
ciation of  this  ancient  and  honourable  institution. 
For  the  fireside  is  sanctified  by  a  great  and  glorious 
tradition.  It  enshrines  all  that  is  most  mystical 
and  most  wonderful  in  our  civilization.  In  his 
pictures  of  the  forest,  Jack  London  again  and  again 
emphasizes  the  magic  effect  of  the  fireside  even  on 
the  creatures  of  the  wild.  When  White  Fang,  the 


Faces  in  the  Fire  175 

wolf,  saw  the  tongues  of  flame  and  clouds  of  smoke 
that  arose  from  beneath  the  Indian's  hands,  he  was 
mystified.  It  seemed  to  him  a  sign  of  some  divinity 
in  man  of  which  he  knew  nothing.  It  drew  him  as 
by  some  mesmeric  influence.  '  He  crawled  several 
steps  towards  the  flame.  His  nose  touched  it.'  And 
when  he  felt  the  pain  it  seemed  as  if  an  angry  deity 
had  smitten  him. 

In  The  Call  of  the  Wild,  Jack  London  returns  to 
the  same  idea.  Buck,  the  great  dog,  was  a  creature 
of  the  wild,  and  sometimes  the  yearning  for  the  wild 
swept  over  him  with  almost  irresistible  authority. 
What  was  it  that  kept  him  from  bounding  off  into 
the  forest  and  shaking  the  dust  of  civilization  from 
his  paws  for  ever  ?  It  was  because  '  faithfulness  and 
devotion,  things  born  of  fire  and  roof/  had  been 
developed  within  him.  He  had  sprawled  on  the 
hearth  before  John  Thornton's  fire ;  had  looked 
up  hungrily  into  John  Thornton's  face ;  had  learned 
to  love  his  master  more  than  life  itself ;  and  to  the 
fireside  of  his  master  he  was  bound  by  invisible 
chains  that  he  could  not  snap.  '  Deep  in  the  forest,' 
says  Jack  London,  '  a  call  was  sounding,  and  as 
often  as  he  heard  this  call,  mysteriously  thrilling  and 
luring,  he  felt  compelled  to  turn  his  back  upon  the  fire 
and  the  beaten  earth  around  it,  and  to  plunge  into 
the  forest,  and  on  and  on,  he  knew  not  where  or 
why ;  npr  did  he  wonder  where  or  why,  the  call 


176  Faces  in  the  Fire 

sounding  imperiously,  deep  in  the  forest.  But  as 
often  as  he  gained  the  soft  unbroken  earth  and  the 
green  shade,  the  love  for  John  Thornton  drew  him 
back  to  the  fire  again.'  The  fire ;  it  is  always  the 
fire.  The  fire  seems,  even  to  the  brutes,  to  be  the 
emblem  of  the  genius  of  our  humanity. 

For  the  triumph  of  humanity  is  the  creation  of 
home ;  and  the  soul  of  the  home  is  the  fireside. 
The  luxurious  summer  evenings,  with  their  wide 
range  of  out-of-door  allurements,  tend  to  discount 
the  attractions  of  the  home,  and  to  depreciate  the 
value  of  domestic  intercourse.  We  return  from 
business  and  rush  out  again  for  recreation.  But 
winter  furnishes  a  salutary  corrective.  When  the 
day's  work  is  done,  and  the  home  is  once  reached, 
everything  conspires  to  enhance  its  seductive  charms. 
Outside,  the  dark  and  the  cold,  the  bleak  wind  and 
the  driving  rain,  threaten  multiple  discomforts  to 
the  gadabout  who  dares  to  venture  forth  ;  whilst 
within,  the  blazing  fire,  the  cheerful  hum  of  table 
talk,  and  the  genial  hospitalities  of  home  make  their 
most  resistless  appeal  amidst  the  wintriest  conditions. 
Was  it  not  for  this  reason  that  the  fire  came  to  be 
regarded  for  centuries  as  the  natural  emblem  of 
domestic  felicity  ?  In  the  days  before  matches  were 
invented,  when  the  lighting  of  a  fire  was  a  much 
more  laborious  business  than  it  is  to-day,  the  first 
fire  in  the  home  of  a  newly  married  pair  was  started 


Faces  in  the  Fire  177 

by  the  bearing  of  a  burning  brand  from  each  of 
the  homes  from  which  bride  and  bridegroom  came. 
It  was  intended  as  a  kind  of  ritual.  The  communi- 
cation of  the  flame  from  the  old  hearths  which  they 
had  left  to  the  new  one  which  they  had  established 
was  designed  to  symbolize  the  perpetuation  of  all 
that  was  worthiest  and  most  sacred  in  the  homes 
from  which  the  young  people  had  come.  It  was 
the  transfer  of  the  Past — that  radiant  and  tender 
Past  that  saluted  me  from  the  glowing  embers  of 
my  camp  fire  in  the  gully — to  the  roseate  and 
unborn  future. 

But  although  it  was  in  my  solitude  that  the  fire 
in  Captain's  Gully  spoke  to  me,  the  fire  is  no  lover 
of  loneliness.  It  is  the  very  emblem  of  hospitality, 
and  there  are  few  graces  more  attractive.  We  boast 
that  an  Englishman's  home  is  his  castle,  and  we  do 
all  that  legislation  can  accomplish  to  make  that 
castle  impregnable  and  inviolate.  We  close  the 
door,  and  draw  the  blinds,  and  we  feel  that  we  have 
effectually  shut  the  whole  world  out.  And  yet 
when  a  friend  looks  in,  we  suddenly  discover  that 
our  happiness  consists,  not  in  barring  and  bolting 
the  heavy  front  door,  but  in  flinging  it  wide  open. 
We  seat  him  in  the  best  chair ;  we  bring  out  the 
best  dainties  from  the  cupboard,  the  best  books 
from  the  shelves,  and  the  best  stories  from  the 
treasure-house  of  memory.  The  fire  crackles,  cheeks 

M 


178  Faces  in  the  Fire 

glow,  and  eyes  sparkle  as  the  genial  conversation 
grows  in  interest  and  surprise.  Nor  is  the  pleasure 
by  any  means  the  monopoly  of  the  host ;  the  guest 
shares  it  to  the  full.  What  is  more  exhilarating 
or  satisfying  than  an  evening  spent  round  a  good 
fire  with  a  few  kindred  spirits  in  whose  company 
one  is  perfectly  at  home?  You  can  speak  or  be 
silent,  just  as  the  mood  takes  you.  You  have  not 
to  labour  to  be  entertaining  if  you  feel  that  you  have 
nothing  to  say ;  nor  need  you  struggle  to  restrain 
yourself  if  you  feel  in  the  humour  to  talk.  You  have 
not  to  weigh  every  word  as  you  instinctively  do  in 
the  presence  of  less  familiar  or  less  trusted  com- 
panions. You  eat  the  fruit  that  is  handed  round,  or 
decline  it,  just  as  the  whim  of  the  moment  dictates, 
feeling  under  no  obligation  either  way.  You  are 
entirely  at  your  ease.  Sometimes  the  one  conver- 
sation holds  the  entire  group,  and  the  semi-circle 
listens,  interested  or  amused,  to  the  tale  that  one 
member  of  the  cluster  is  telling.  At  other  times 
the  party  automatically  divides  itself  into  knots ; 
the  gentlemen,  it  may  be,  breaking  into  politics 
or  business,  and  the  ladies  comparing  notes  on  more 
enticing  themes.  The  fire  blazes ;  the  buzz  of  con- 
versation rises  and  falls,  sinks  and  swells.  Occa- 
sionally the  attention  is  so  concentrated  on  the 
subdued  voice  of  one  speaker  that  scarcely  a  sound 
is  audible  outside  the  door ;  a  moment  later  the 


Faces  in  the  Fire  179 

argument  is  so  exciting,  or  the  laughing  so  boisterous, 
that  everybody  seems  to  be  shouting  at  the  same 
time.  The  gramophone,  and  all  such  adventitious 
aids  to  the  tolerable  passage  of  a  leaden  evening, 
are  never  so  much  as  thought  of.  Even  the  piano 
is  left  out  in  the  cold.  Every  moment  is  crowded 
with  the  flush  of  unalloyed  delight.  And  when  the 
last  guest  has  vanished,  and  the  house  seems  silent 
and  empty,  it  suddenly  occurs  to  you  that  the  great 
chief  guest  whom  you  have  been  entertaining,  or 
who  has  been  entertaining  you,  was  the  Past,  the 
radiant  and  glorified  Past.  The  phrase  that  we 
heard  so  often  in  Captain's  Gully,  the  '  I  remember 

once ,'  has  been  the  key-note  of  the  evening's 

gossip. 

For  the  fact  is  that  the  fireside,  whether  in  Cap- 
tain's Gully  in  summer-time  or  at  home  in  dead  of 
winter,  is  a  sort  of  magic  observatory,  a  kind  of 
camera-obscura.  Outside,  the  world  is  wrapped 
in  impenetrable  darkness.  But  the  kindly  glow  of 
the  fire  stimulates  the  memory,  spurs  the  imagina- 
tion, and  brings  back  all  our  lost  loves  and  all  our 
veiled  landscapes  in  a  beautified  and  idealized  form. 
The  lonely  man  sees  faces  in  the  fire ;  but  there  are 
other  things  as  well.  The  springs  and  summers 
that  haunt  our  fancy  as  we  talk  of  them  beside 
a  roaring  fire  are  the  blithest  and  gayest  seasons  that 
the  world  has  ever  known.  Never  was  sky  so  blue, 


iSo  Faces  in  the  Fire 

or  earth  so  fair,  or  sun  so  bright,  or  air  so  sweet  as 
the  sky  and  the  earth,  the  sun  and  the  air,  that  we 
contemplate  from  our  coign  of  vantage  by  the  side 
of  the  fire.  The  fragrance  of  the  hawthorn  in  the 
hedgerow ;  the  humming  of  the  bees  along  the 
bank ;  the  carolling  of  birds  in  the  tree-tops ; 
the  bleating  of  the  lambs  across  the  meadows, — these 
never  appear  so  alluring  as  when  we  view  them 
from  the  wonderful  observatory  at  the  fireside. 
Dean  Hole  tells  with  what  sadness  he  used  to 
pluck  the  last  roses  of  summer.  And  then,  he  says, 
'  the  chill  evenings  come,  curtains  are  drawn,  and 
bright  fires  glow.  Then  who  is  so  happy  as  the 
rose-grower  with  the  new  catalogues  before  him  ?  ' 
He  sits  by  his  fire  and  talks  lovingly  of  the  roses 
that  he  grew  in  the  summer  that  has  vanished, 
and  his  eyes  light  up  with  enthusiasm  as  he  thinks 
of  the  still  fairer  blossoms  of  the  summer  that  will 
soon  be  here.  And  so  two  summer-times  sit  by  his 
hearth  at  mid-winter,  and  he  revels  in  the  company 
of  each  of  them. 

It  is  ever  so.  The  crackling  of  the  logs  wakes  up 
the  slumbering  Past,  and  it  all  comes  back  to  us. 
As  soon  as  a  man  gets  his  feet  on  the  fender  he 
instinctively  thinks  of  old  times  and  old  companions. 
The  flames  have  destroyed  much ;  but  they  also 
revive  much.  They  bring  back  to  us  our  yesterdays  ; 
they  bring  back,  indeed,  the  lordly  yesterdays  of 


Faces  in  the  Fire  181 

the  remotest,  stateliest  antiquity.  Surely  that 
was  the  idea  in  Macaulay's  mind  when  he  wrote 
'  Horatius ' : 

And  in  the  nights  of  winter, 

When  the  cold  north  winds  blow, 
And  the  long  howling  of  the  wolves 

Is  heard  amidst  the  snow; 
When  round  the  lonely  cottage 

Roars  loud  the  tempest's  din, 
And  the  good  logs  of  Algidus 

Roar  louder  yet  within ; 

When  the  oldest  cask  is  opened, 

And  the  largest  lamp  is  lit; 
When  the  chestnuts  glow  in  the  embers, 

And  the  kid  turns  on  the  spit ; 
When  young  and  old  in  circle 

Around  the  firebrands  close  ; 
When  the  girls  are  weaving  baskets, 

And  the  lads  are  shaping  bows ; 

When  the  goodman  mends  his  armour, 

And  trims  his  helmet's  plume ; 
When  the  goodwife's  shuttle  merrily 

Goes  flashing  through  the  loom, — 
With  weeping  and  with  laughter 

Still  is  the  story  told, 
How  well  Horatius  kept  the  bridge 

In  the  brave  days  of  old. 

Now,  when  I  come  to  think  of  it,  is  it  any  wondtsr 
that  the  days  of  auld  lang  syne,  and  the  old  familiar 


Faces  in  the  Fire 

faces,  should  all  come  back  in  the  flames  ?  For  the 
scientists  tell  me  that  this  study-fire  of  mine  is 
simply  the  radiance  of  far-back  ages  suddenly 
released  for  my  present  comfort.  Long  before  a 
single  black-fellow  prowled  about  these  vast  Aus- 
tralian solitudes,  the  sun  bathed  this  huge  continent 
in  apparently  superfluous  brightness.  But  the  sun 
knew  what  it  was  doing.  The  coalbeds  gathered  up 
and  stored  that  sunshine  through  centuries  of  cen- 
turies. The  black  men  came ;  and  the  white  men 
came  ;  and  here  at  last  am  I !  I  need  that  sunshine 
of  ages  long  gone  by.  The  miner  digs  for  it ;  brings 
it  to  the  surface  ;  sends  it  to  my  study ;  and,  lo, 
I  am  this  very  morning  warming  my  numb  fingers 
at  its  genial  glow  ! 

And  so  the  match  with  which  I  light  a  fire,  either 
in  the  camp  away  up  in  the  bush,  or  in  this  quiet 
study  at  home,  is  nothing  less  than  the  wand  of  a 
magician !  At  the  barred  and  bolted  doors  of  the 
irrecoverable  Past  I  tap  with  that  small  wand  and 
cry, '  Open,  Sesame  ! '  And,  lo,  a  miracle  is  straight- 
way wrought !  The  doors  that  have  been  closed 
for  years,  perhaps  for  ages,  swing  suddenly  open, 
and  the  sunshine  comes  streaming  out !  That 
match  liberates  the  imprisoned  brightness.  The 
scientists  say  so,  and  I  can  easily  believe  it.  For 
this  is  the  essential  glory  of  the  fireside.  All  the 
sunniest  memories  rush  to  mind  as  we  cluster  round 


Faces  in  the  Fire  183 

the  hearth.  All  the  sunniest  experiences  of  the 
dead  and  buried  years  spring  to  vigorous  life  once 
more.  All  the  sunniest  faces — the  dear,  familiar 
faces  of  the  long  ago — smile  at  us  again  from  out 
the  glowing  embers.  And  perhaps — who  shall  say  ? 
— perhaps  some  thought  like  this  haunted  the  minds 
of  a  prophet  of  the  Old  Testament  and  an  apostle 
of  the  New  when,  greatly  daring,  they  declared  that 
'  our  God  is  a  consuming  fire  ! '  Did  they  mean 
that,  when  we  see  Him  as  He  is,  all  the  holiest  and 
sweetest  and  most  precious  treasure  of  the  Past  will 
be  more  our  own?  Did  they  mean  that  in  Him 
the  sunshine  of  all  the  ages  will  again  salute  us  ? 


VIII 
THE  MENACE  OF  THE  SUNLIT  HILL 

I  AM  writing  on  the  six  hundred  and  fiftieth  anni- 
versary of  the  birth  of  Dante.  The  poet  was  born 
in  1265  >  I  am  writing  in  1915.  Six  hundred  and 
fifty  years  represent  a  tremendous  slice  of  history ; 
and  these  six  hundred  and  fifty  years  span  a  chasm 
between  two  specially  notable  crises  in  the  annals 
of  this  little  world.  Dante  was  born  in  a  year  of 
battle  and  of  tumult,  of  fierce  dissension  and  of 
bitter  strife.  It  was  a  year  that  decided  the  des- 
tinies of  empires  and  changed  the  face  of  Europe. 
Such  a  year,  too,  is  this  in  which  I  write,  and,  writing, 
look  down  the  long,  long  avenue  of  the  centuries 
that  intervene.  This  morning,  however,  I  am  not 
concerned  with  the  story  of  revolution  and  of 
conflict,  of  political  convulsions  and  of  nations  at 
war.  Such  a  study  would  have  fascinations  of  its 
own  ;  but  I  deliberately  leave  it  that  I  may  contem- 
plate the  secret  history  of  a  great,  a  noble,  and  a 
tender  soul.  Edward  FitzGerald  tells  us  that  he 
and  Tennyson  were  one  day  looking  in  a  shop  window 
in  Regent  Street.  They  saw  a  long  row  of  busts, 

among  which  were  those  of  Goethe  and  Dante 

184 


The  Menace  of  the  Sunlit  Hill          185 

The  poet  and  his  friend  studied  them  closely  and 
in  silence.  At  last  FitzGerald  spoke.  '  What  is  it,' 
he  asked,  '  which  is  present  in  Dante's  face  and 
absent  from  Goethe's  ?  '  The  poet  answered,  '  The 
divine  I '  Now  how  did  that  divine  element  come 
into  Dante's  life  ?  He  has  himself  told  us.  Has 
the  spiritual  autobiography  of  Dante,  as  revealed 
to  us  in  the  introductory  lines  of  his  Inferno,  ever 
taken  that  place  among  our  devotional  classics 
to  which  it  is  justly  entitled  ?  Surely  the  pathos, 
the  insight,  and  the  exquisite  simplicity  of  that 
first  page  are  worthy  of  comparison  with  the  choicest 
treasures  of  Bunyan  or  of  Wesley,  of  Brainerd  or 
of  Fox.  Let  us  glance  at  it. 


I  have  heard  many  evangelists  preach  on  such 
texts  as  :  '  The  Son  of  Man  is  come  to  seek  and  to 
save  that  which  is  lost.'  It  was  necessary,  of  course, 
that  they  should  explain  to  their  audiences  what 
they  meant  by  this  lost  condition.  Wisely  enough, 
they  have  usually  had  recourse  to  illustration. 
The  child  lost  in  a  London  crowd ;  the  ship  lost  on 
a  trackless  sea ;  the  sheep  lost  among  the  lonely 
hills ;  the  traveller  lost  in  the  endless  bush, — all 
these  have  been  exploited  again  and  again.  From 
literature,  one  of  the  best  illustrations  is  the  moving 
story  of  Enoch  Arden.  When  poor  Enoch  returns 


186  The  Menace  of  the  Sunlit  Hill 

from  his  long  sojourn  on  the  desolate  island,  he 
finds  that  his  wife,  giving  him  up  for  dead,  has 
married  Philip,  and  that  his  children  worship  their 
new  father.  It  is  the  garrulous  old  woman  at  the 
inn  who  tells  him,  never  dreaming  that  she  is  speaking 
to  Enoch.  Says  she  : 

'  Enoch,  poor  man,  was  cast  away  and  lost ! ' 
He,  shaking  his  grey  head  pathetically, 
Repeated,  muttering,  '  Cast  away  and  lost ! ' 
Again  in  deeper  inward  whispers,  '  Lost  1 ' 

But  none  of  these  illustrations  are  as  good  as  Dante's. 
He  opens  by  describing  the  emotions  with  which, 
at  the  age  of  thirty-five,  his  soul  awoke.  He  was 
lost! 

In  the  midway  of  this  our  mortal  life, 
I  found  me  in  a  gloomy  wood,  astray, 
Gone  from  the  path  direct :  and  e'en  to  tell 
It  were  no  easy  task,  how  savage  wild 
That  forest,  how  robust  and  rough  its  growth, 
Which  to  remember  only,  my  dismay 
Renews,  in  bitterness  not  far  from  death. 

Neither  Bunyan's  pilgrim  in  his  City  of  Destruction, 
nor  his  City  of  Mansoul  beleaguered  by  fierce  foes, 
is  quite  so  human  or  quite  so  convincing  as  this 
weird  scene  in  the  forest.  The  gloom,  the  loneliness, 
the  silence,  and  the  absence  of  all  hints  as  to  a 


The  Menace  of  the  Sunlit  Hill          187 

way  out  of  his  misery ;  these  make  up  a  scene  that 
combines  all  the  elements  of  adventure  with  all 
the  elements  of  reality.  Dante  was  lost,  and  knew 
it. 

II 

The  poet  cannot  tell  us  by  what  processes  he 
became  entangled  in  this  jungle.  '  How  first  I 
entered  it  I  scarce  can  say.'  But  it  does  not  very 
much  matter.  The  way  by  which  he  escaped  is 
the  thing  that  concerns  us ;  and  to  this  theme  he 
bravely  addresses  himself.  In  his  description  of 
his  earliest  sensations  in  the  dark  forest,  several 
things  are  significant.  He  clearly  regarded  it  as 
a  very  great  gain,  for  example,  to  have  discovered 
that  he  was  lost.  '  I  found  me,'  he  says,  '  I  found 
me  in  a  gloomy  wood,  astray.'  Those  three  words, 
'  /  found  me,'  remind  us  of  nothing  so  much  as  the 
record  of  the  prodigal,  '  And  he  came  to  himself.' 
I  am  pleased  to  notice  that  it  is  of  the  incomparable 
story  of  the  prodigal  that  Dante's  opening  confession 
reminds  most  of  his  expositors.  Thus,  Mr.  A.  G. 
Ferress  Howell,  in  his  valuable  little  monograph 
on  Dante,  observes  that  this  finding  of  himself 
'  shows  that  he  has  got  to  the  point  reached  by 
the  prodigal  son  when  he  said,  "  I  will  arise  and  go 
to  my  father."  He  found,  that  is  to  say,  that  he 
had  altogether  missed  the  true  object  of  life.  The 


iSS  The  Menace  of  the  Sunlit  Hill 

wild  and  trackless  wood,'  Mr.  Howell  goes  on  to 
observe,  '  represents  the  world  as  it  was  in  1300. 
Why  was  it  wild  and  trackless?  Because  the 
guides  appointed  to  lead  men  to  temporal  felicity 
in  accordance  with  the  teachings  of  Philosophy,  and 
to  eternal  felicity  in  accordance  with  the  teachings 
of  Revelation — the  Emperor  and  the  Pope — were 
both  of  them  false  to  their  trust.'  So  here  was 
poor  Dante,  only  knowing  that  he  was  hopelessly 
lost ;  and  unable  to  discover  among  the  undergrowth 
about  him  any  suggestion  of  a  way  to  safety. 

Ill 

Suddenly  the  Vision  Beautiful  breaks  upon  him. 
He  stumbles  blindly  through  the  forest  until  he 
arrives  at  the  base  of  a  sunlit  mountain  : 

...  a  mountain's  foot  I  reached,  where  closed 
The  valley  that  had  pierced  my  heart  with  dread. 
I  looked  aloft,  and  saw  his  shoulders  broad 
Already  vested  with  that  planet's  beam 
Who  leads  all  wanderers  safe  through  every  way. 

The  hill  is,  of  course,  the  life  he  fain  would  live — 
steep  and  difficult,  but  free  from  the  mists  of  the 
valley  and  the  entanglements  of  the  wood.  And 
is  it  not  illumined  by  the  Sun  of  Righteousness — 
'  Who  leads  all  wanderers  safe  through  every 


The  Menace  of  the  Sunlit  Hill          189 

way '  ?  He  stepped  out  from  the  valley  and 
cheerfully  commenced  the  ascent.  And  then  his 
troubles  began.  One  after  the  other,  wild  beasts 
barred  his  way  and  dared  him  to  persist.  His 
path  was  beset  with  the  most  terrible  difficulties. 
Now  here,  if  anywhere,  the  poet  betrays  that 
spiritual  insight,  that  flash  of  genuine  mysticism, 
that  entitles  him  to  rank  with  the  great  masters.  For 
whilst  he  wandered  in  the  murky  wood  no  ravenous 
beasts  assailed  him.  There,  life,  however  unsatis- 
fying, was  at  least  free  from  conflict.  But  as  soon 
as  he  essayed  to  climb  the  sunlit  hill  his  way  was 
challenged.  It  is  a  very  ancient  problem.  The 
psalmist  marvelled  that,  whilst  the  wicked  around 
him  enjoyed  a  most  profound  and  unruffled  tran- 
quillity, his  life  was  so  full  of  perplexity  and  trouble. 
John  Bunyan  was  arrested  by  the  same  inscrutable 
mystery.  Why  should  he,  in  his  pilgrim  progress, 
be  so  storm-beaten  and  persecuted,  whilst  the 
people  who  abandoned  themselves  to  folly  enjoyed 
unbroken  ease  ?  I  have  often  thought  of  the 
problem  when  out  shooting.  The  dog  invariably 
ignores  the  dead  birds  and  devotes  all  his  energy 
to  the  fluttering  things  that  are  struggling  to  escape. 
In  the  stress  of  the  experience  itself,  however,  such 
comfortable  thoughts  do  not  occur  to  us,  and  it 
seems  passing  strange  that,  whilst  our  days  in  the 
wood  were  undisturbed  by  hungry  eyes  or  gleaming 


190  The  Menace  of  the  Sunlit  Hill 

fangs,  our  attempt  to  climb  the  sunlit  hill  should 
bring  about  us  a  host  of  unexpected  enemies. 
Many  a  young  and  eager  convert,  fancying  that 
the  Christian  life  meant  nothing  but  rapture,  has 
been  startled  by  the  discovery  of  the  beasts  of  prey 
awaiting  him. 

IV 

And  such  beasts !  Trouble  seemed  to  succeed 
trouble  ;  difficulty  followed  on  the  heels  of  difficulty ; 
peril  came  hard  upon  peril. 

Scarce  the  ascent 

Began,  when,  lo  !  a  panther,  nimble,  light, 
And  covered  with  a  speckled  skin,  appeared, 
Nor  when  it  saw  me,  vanished,  rather  strove 
To  check  my  onward  going ;  that  ofttimes 
With  purpose  to  retrace  my  steps  I  turned. 

He  had  scarcely  recovered  trom  the  shock,  and 
driven  this  peril  from  his  path,  when 

...  a  new  dread  succeeded,  for  in  view 
A  lion  came,  'gainst  me,  as  it  appeared. 
With  his  head  held  aloft  and  hunger-mad, 
That  e'en  the  air  was  fear-struck.     A  she-wolf 
Was  at  his  heels,  who  in  her  leanness  seemed 
Full  of  all  wants,  and  many  a  land  hath  made 
Disconsolate  ere  now.     She  with  such  fear 
O'erwhelmed  me,  at  the  sight  of  her  appalled, 
That  of  the  height  all  hope  I  lost. 


The  Menace  of  the  Sunlit  Hill         191 

The  panther,  the  lion,  and  the  wolf;  that  is  very 
suggestive,  and  we  must  look  into  this  striking 
symbolism  a  little  more  closely. 

V 

The  three  fierce  creatures  that  challenged  Dante's 
ascent  of  the  sunlit  hill  represent  evils  of  various 
kinds  and  characters.  If  a  man  cannot  be  deterred 
by  one  form  of  temptation,  another  will  speedily 
present  itself.  It  is,  as  the  old  prophet  said,  '  as 
if  a  man  did  flee  from  a  lion,  and  a  bear  met  him ; 
or  went  into  the  house,  and  leaned  his  hand  on 
the  wall,  and  a  serpent  bit  him.'  If  one  form  of 
evil  is  unsuccessful,  another  instantly  replaces  it. 
If  the  panther  is  driven  off,  the  lion  appears ;  and 
if  the  lion  is  vanquished,  the  lean  wolf  takes  its 
place.  But  there  is  more  than  this  hidden  in  the 
poet's  parable.  Did  Dante  intend  to  set  forth  no 
subtle  secret  by  placing  the  three  beasts  in  that 
order  ?  Most  of  his  expositors  agree  that  he  meant 
the  panther  to  represent  Lust,  the  lion  to  represent 
Pride,  and  the  wolf  to  represent  Avarice.  Lust  is 
the  besetting  temptation  of  youth,  ai  1  therefore 
the  panther  comes  first.  Pride  is  the  sin  to  which 
we  succumb  most  easily  in  the  full  vigour  of  life. 
We  have  won  our  spurs,  made  a  way  for  ourselves 
in  the  world,  and  the  glamour  of  our  triumph  is 
too  much  for  us.  And  Avarice  comes,  not  exactly 


The  Menace  of  the  Sunlit  Hill 


in  age,  but  just  after  the  zenith  has  been  passed. 
The  beasts  were  not  equidistant.  The  lion  came 
some  time  after  the  panther  had  vanished  ;  but  the 
wolf  crept  at  the  lion's  heels.  What  a  world  of 
meaning  is  crowded  into  that  masterly  piece  of 
imagery  !  Assuming  that  this  interpretation  be 
sound,  two  other  suggestions  immediately  confront 
us  ;  and  we  must  lend  an  ear  to  each  of  them  in 
turn. 


VI 


The  three  creatures  differed  in  character.  The 
panther  was  beautiful ;  the  lion  was  terrible ;  the 
wolf  was  horrible.  Although  the  poet  knew  full 
well  the  cruelty  and  deadliness  of  the  crouching 
panther's  spring,  he  was  compelled  to  admire  the 
creature's  exquisite  beauty.  '  The  hour,'  he  says, 

The  hour  was  morning's  prime,  and  on  his  way. 

Aloft  the  sun  ascended  with  those  stars 

That  with  him  rose,  when  Love  divine  first  moved 

Those  its  fair  works ;  so  that  with  joyous  hope 

All  things  conspire  to  fill  me,  the  gay  skin 

Of  that  swift  animal,  the  matin  dawn, 

And  the  sweet  season. 

The  lion,  on  the  other  hand,  is  the  symbol  of  majesty 
and  terror.     But  the  lean  she-wolf  was  positively 


The  Menace  of  the  Sunlit  Hill          193 

horrible.  Her  hungry  eyes,  her  gleaming  fangs, 
her  panting  sides,  filled  the  beholder  with  loathing. 
'  Her  leanness  seemed  full  of  all  wants.'  The  poet 
says  that  the  very  sight  of  her  o'erwhelmed  and 
appalled  him.  Dante  himself  confessed  that,  of 
the  three,  he  regarded  the  last  as  by  far  the  worst  of 
these  three  brutal  foes.  Now  I  fancy  that,  in  the 
temptations  that  respectively  assail  youth,  maturity, 
and  decline,  I  have  noticed  these  same  characteristics. 
As  a  rule,  the  sins  of  youth  are  beautifiil  sins.  The 
appeals  to  youthful  vice  are  invariably  defended  on 
aesthetic  grounds.  The  boundary-line  that  divides 
high  art  from  indecency  is  a  very  difficult  one  to 
define.  And  it  is  so  difficult  to  define  because  the 
blandishments  to  which  youth  succumbs  are  for  the 
most  part  the  blandishments  of  beauty.  Like  the 
panther,  vice  is  cruel  and  pitiless ;  yet  the  glamour 
of  it  is  so  fair  that  it  '  blends  with  the  matin  dawn 
and  the  sweet  season.'  The  sins  that  bring  down 
the  strong  man,  on  the  other  hand,  are  not  so  much 
beautiful  as  terrible.  The  man  in  his  prime  goes 
down  before  those  terrific  onslaughts  that  the  forces 
of  evil  know  so  well  how  to  organize  and  muster. 
They  are  not  lovely  ;  they  are  leonine.  And  is  it  not 
true  that  the  temptations  that  work  havoc  in  later 
life  are  as  a  rule  unalluring,  hideous,  and  difficult 
to  understand?  The  world  is  thunderstruck.  It 
seems  so  incomprehensible  that,  after  having 

N 


iQ4  The  Menace  of  the  Sunlit  Hill 

survived  his  struggle  with  the  beauteous  panther  and 
the  terrible  lion,  a  man  of  such  mettle  should  yield 
to  a  lean  and  ugly  wolf  ! 

VII 

The  other  thing  is  this :  there  is  a  distinction  in 
method,  a  difference  in  approach,  distinguishing 
these  three  beasts.  The  panther  crouches,  springs 
suddenly  upon  its  unsuspecting  prey,  and  relies  on 
the  advantage  of  surprise.  Such  are  the  sins  of 
youth.  '  Alas,'  as  George  Macdonald  so  tersely 
says, 

Alas,  how  easily  things  go  wrong ! 
A  sigh  too  deep,  or  a  kiss  too  long, 
There  follows  a  mist  and  a  weeping  rain, 
And  life  is  never  the  same  again. 

The  lion  meets  you  in  the  open,  and  relies  upon  his 
strength.  The  wolf  simply  persists.  He  follows 
your  trail  day  after  day.  You  see  his  wicked  eyes, 
like  fireflies,  stabbing  the  darkness  of  the  night. 
He  relies  not  upon  surprise  or  strength,  but  on 
wearing  you  down  at  the  last.  Wherefore,  let  him 
that  thinketh  he  standeth — having  beaten  off  the 
panther — beware  of  the  lion  and  the  wolf.  And,  still 
more  imperatively,  let  him  that  thinketh  he  standeth 
— having  vanquished  both  the  panther  and  the 
lion — take  heed  lest  he  fall  at  last  to  the  grim 


The  Menace  of  the  Sunlit  Hill          195 

and  frightful  persistence  of  the  lean  she-wolf.  It 
is  just  six  hundred  and  fifty  years  to-day  since 
Dante  was  born  ;  but,  as  my  pen  lias  been  whispering 
these  things  to  me,  the  centuries  have  fallen  away 
like  a  curtain  that  is  drawn.  I  have  saluted  across 
the  ages  a  man  of  like  passions  with  myself,  and  his 
brave  spirit  has  called  upon  mine  to  climb  the  sunlit 
hill  in  spite  of  everything. 


IX 
AMONG  THE   ICEBERGS 

NOT  so  very  long  ago,  and  not  so  very  far  from  this 
Tasmanian  home  of  mine,  I  beheld  a  spectacle  that 
took  me  completely  by  surprise,  and  even  now  baffles 
my  best  endeavours  to  describe  it.  I  was  on  board 
a  fine  steamship  four  days  out  from  Hobart.  In 
the  early  afternoon,  as  I  was  rising  from  a  brief 
siesta,  I  was  startled  by  a  voice  exclaiming  excitedly, 
'  Oh,  do  come  and  see  such  a  splendid  iceberg  ! ' 
I  confess  that  at  first  I  entertained  the  notion  with  a 
liberal  allowance  of  caution.  I  was  afflicted  with 
very  grave  suspicions.  At  sea,  folk  are  apt  to  forget 
the  calendar,  and  every  day  in  the  year  has  an 
awkward  way  of  getting  itself  mistaken  for  the  first 
of  April.  But  the  manifest  earnestness  of  my  infor- 
mant bore  down  before  it  all  base  doubts,  and  I  was 
sufficiently  convinced  to  hurry  up  to  the  promenade 
deck.  I  looked  eagerly  far  out  to  port,  and  then  to 
starboard,  but  nothing  was  to  be  seen  !  It  was  the 
old  story  of  '  water,  water  everywhere  I '  My 
suspicions  returned  in  an  aggravated  form.  In- 
dignantly I  sought  out  my  informant,  and  peremp- 
torily demanded  production  of  the  promised  iceberg. 

196 


Among  the  Icebergs  197 

'  It's  dead  ahead,'  he  replied  calmly,  '  and  can 
therefore  only  be  seen  as  yet  from  the  bows.'  To 
the  bows  I  accordingly  hastened,  and  there  I  found 
a  crowd,  comprising  both  passengers  and  crew, 
already  congregated. 

And  surely  enough,  I  then  and  there  beheld  the 
most  magnificent  and  awe-inspiring  natural  phe- 
nomenon upon  which  these  eyes  ever  rested.  Right 
ahead  of  the  ship  there  loomed  up  on  the  far  horizon 
what  appeared,  under  an  overcast,  leaden  sky,  to 
be  a  fair-sized  island,  with  a  high  and  rocky  coast. 
In  the  distance  stood  a  tall,  rugged  peak,  as  of  a 
mountain  towering  up  like  a  monarch  coldly  proud 
of  his  desolate  island  realm.  The  whole  stood  out 
strikingly  gloomy  and  forbidding  against  the  distant 
eastern  skyline.  But,  hey,  presto !  even  as  we 
watched  it,  in  less  time  than  it  takes  to  tell,  a  won- 
derful transformation  scene  was  enacted  before  our 
eyes.  Suddenly,  from  over  the  stern,  the  sun  shone 
out,  flinging  all  its  radiant  splendours  on  the  colossal 
object  of  our  undivided  attention. 

In  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  as  if  by  magic,  that 
which  but  a  second  ago  might  have  passed  for  a 
barren  rocky  island  was  transformed  into  a 
brilliant  mass  of  dazzling  whiteness.  Everything 
seemed  to  have  been  transfigured.  A  fairyland 
of  pearly  palaces,  flashing  with  diamonds  and 
emeralds,  could  not  have  eclipsed  its  glories  now ! 


ig8  Among  the  Icebergs 

There  it  still  stood,  indescribably  terrible  and  grand, 
right  in  our  track,  as  though  daring  us  to  approach 
any  nearer  to  its  gleaming  purities.  And  as  the 
sunlight  refracted  about  it,  all  the  colours  of  the 
rainbow  seemed  to  play  around  its  brow.  Moreover, 
the  genial  warmth  produced  another  wonder.  For, 
under  its  benign  influence,  the  glittering  peaks  gave 
off  columns  of  vapour.  They  seemed  to  smoke 
like  volcanoes. 

In  the  mellow  summer  sun, 
The  icebergs,  one  by  one, 
Caught  a  spark  of  quickening  fire, 
Every  turret  smoked  a  censer, 
Every  pinnacle  a  pyre. 

The  wonder  grew  upon  us  as  we  watched.  And 
yet,  straight  on,  our  good  ship  held  her  way,  her 
course  unaltered  and  her  speed  unabated,  as  if, 
fascinated  by  the  majestic  beauty  before  her,  she 
were  eager  to  dash  herself  to  pieces  at  the  feet  of 
such  pure  and  awful  loveliness.  Ever  greater  and 
ever  more  splendid  it  appeared  as  the  distance 
lessened  between  us  and  it,  until  we  really  seemed 
to  be  approaching  an  almost  perilous  proximity. 
Then,  of  a  sudden,  the  ship  swerved  to  the  north- 
ward, and  we  ran  by  within  a  few  hundred  yards  of 
the  icy  monster.  Who  could  help  recalling  the 
adventure  of  Coleridge's  '  Ancient  Mariner '  ? 


Among  the  Icebergs  199 

And  now  there  came  both  mist  and  snow, 

And  it  grew  wondrous  cold, 
And  ice,  mast  high,  came  floating  by 

As  green  as  emerald. 

And  through  the  drifts,  the  snowy  clifts 

Did  send  a  dismal  sheen, 
Nor  shapes  of  men,  nor  beasts  we  ken, 

The  ice  was  all  between. 

The  ice  was  here,  the  ice  was  there, 

The  ice  was  all  around, 
It  cracked  and  growled,  and  roared  and  howled, 

Like  noises  in  a  swound. 

Or  Tennyson's  lovely  simile,  wherein  he  says  that 
we  ourselves  are  like 

Floating  lonely  icebergs,  our  crests  above  the  ocean, 
With  deeply  submerged  portions  united  by  the  sea. 

Then  once  again  the  fickle  sun  veiled  his  face, 
and  that  which  had  appeared  at  first  as  a  rocky 
island  in  mid-ocean,  and  afterwards  as  a  flashing 
palace  of  crystals,  now  assumed  a  dulled  whiteness 
as  of  one  huge  mass  of  purest  chalk. 

The  heavy  southern  seas  were  dashing  angrily 
against  it,  seeming  jealously  to  resent  its  escape  from 
their  own  frozen  dominions.  And  the  great  clouds 
of  spray  which,  as  a  consequence,  were  hurled  into 
mid-air  gave  an  added  grandeur  to  a  spectacle  that 
seemed  to  need  no  supplementary  charms.  For 
miles  around,  the  sea  was  strewn  with  enormous 


too  Among  the  Icebergs 

masses  of  floating  ice,  some  as  large  as  an  ordinary 
two-story  house,  and  all  of  the  most  fantastic 
shapes,  which  had  apparently  swarmed  off  from  the 
main  berg.  One  long  row  of  these,  stretching  out 
from  the  monster  right  across  the  ship's  course, 
looked  for  a  moment  not  unlike  a  great  ice-reef 
connected  with  the  berg,  and  caused  no  little  anxiety 
until  the  line  of  apparent  peril  had  been  safely 
negotiated.  When  we  were  clean  abreast,  a  gun 
was  fired  from  the  bridge  of  the  steamer,  in  order, 
I  understand,  to  ascertain  from  the  rapidity  and 
volume  of  the  echo  the  approximate  distance,  and, 
by  deduction,  the  size  of  our  polar  acquaintance. 
Nor  were  there  wanting  those  who  were  sanguine 
enough  to  expect  that  the  atmospheric  vibration 
set  in  operation  by  the  explosion  might  finish  the 
work  of  dislocation  which  any  cracks  or  fissures 
had  already  begun,  and  bring  down  at  least  some 
tottering  peaks  or  pinnacles.  Sir  John  Franklin, 
in  one  of  his  northern  voyages,  saw  this  feat  accom- 
plished. But,  if  any  of  my  companions  expected 
to  witness  a  similar  phenomenon,  they  had  reckoned 
without  their  host.  The  unaffected  dignity  of  the 
sullen  monster  mocked  our  puny  effort  to  bring 
about  his  downfall.  Hercules  scorned  the  ridiculous 
weapons  of  the  pigmies  !  The  dull  booming  of  the 
gun  started  a  thousand  weird  echoes  on  the  desolate 
ice.  They  snarled  out  their  remonstrance  at  our 


Among  the  Icebergs  201 

intrusion  upon  their  wonted  solitude,  and  then  again 
lapsed  sulkily  into  silence.  The  temperature  dropped 
instantly,  and  I  recalled  a  famous  saying  of  Dr. 
Thomas  Guthrie's,  whose  life  I  had  just  been  reading. 
In  one  of  his  speeches,  before  the  Synod  of  Angus 
and  Mearns,  he  said,  '  I  know  of  churches  that 
would  be  all  the  better  of  some  little  heat.  An 
iceberg  of  a  minister  has  been  floated  in  among  them, 
and  they  have  cooled  down  to  something  below 
zero.'  'An  iceberg  of  a  minister!'  I  think  of  the 
nipping  air  on  board  when  our  ship  was  in  the  midst 
of  the  ice  ;  and  the  memory  of  it  makes  me  shiver  ! 
'  An  iceberg  of  a  minister ! '  God,  in  His  great 
mercy,  save  me  from  being  such  a  minister  as  that ! 
The  long-sustained  excitement  to  which  these 
events  had  given  rise  had  scarcely  begun  to  subside 
when  the  cry  arose,  '  An  iceberg  on  the  starboard 
bow ! '  This,  hi  its  turn,  was  speedily  succeeded 
by  '  Another ! '  Then,  '  An  iceberg  on  the  port 
bow  ! '  And  yet  once  more  '  Another  ! '  till  we 
were  literally  surrounded  by  icebergs.  At  tea-time 
we  could  peep  through  the  saloon  portholes  at  no 
fewer  than  five  of  these  polar  giants.  Although 
most  of  them  were  larger  than  our  first  acquaintance 
— at  least  one  of  them  being  about  three  miles  in 
length — none  of  these  later  appearances  succeeded 
in  arousing  the  same  degree  of  enthusiasm  as  that 
with  which  we  hailed  the  advent  of  the  first.  For 


202  Among  the  Icebergs 

one  thing,  the  charm  of  novelty  had,  of  course, 
begun  to  wear  off.  And,  for  another,  they  were 
of  a  less  romantic  shape,  most  of  them  being  per- 
fectly flat,  as  though  some  great  polar  plain  were 
being  broken  up  and  we  were  being  favoured  with 
the  superfluous  territory  in  casual  instalments. 
And,  by  the  way,  speaking  of  the  shape  of  icebergs, 
1  am  told  that  the  icebergs  of  the  two  hemispheres 
are  quite  different  in  shape,  the  Arctic  bergs  being 
irregular  hi  outline,  with  lofty  pinnacles  and  glittering 
domes,  while  the  Antarctic  bergs  are,  generally 
speaking,  flat-topped,  and  of  less  fantastic  form. 
The  delicate  traceries  of  the  far  North  do  not  reflect 
themselves  in  the  sturdier  and  more  matter-of-fact 
monsters  of  the  South.  The  appearance  of  icebergs 
in  such  numbers,  of  such  dimensions,  in  these 
latitudes,  and  at  this  time  of  the  year,  constitutes, 
I  am  credibly  informed,  a  very  unusual  if  not, 
indeed,  a  quite  unique  experience.  The  theory 
was  freely  advanced  that  some  volcanic  disturbance 
had  visited  the  polar  regions  and  had  dislodged 
these  massive  fragments.  However  that  may  be,  we 
were  not  at  all  sorry  that  it  had  fallen  to  our  happy 
lot  to  behold  a  spectacle  of  such  sublimity.  And 
when  we  reflected  that  less  than  one-tenth  of  each 
mass  was  visible  above  the  water-line,  we  were  able 
to  form  a  more  adequate  appreciation  of  the  stu- 
pendous proportions  of  our  gigantic  neighbours. 


Among  the  Icebergs  203 

Reflecting  upon  this  aspect  of  the  matter,  I  remem- 
bered to  have  heard,  in  my  college  days,  a  popular 
London  preacher  make  excellent  use  of  this  phe- 
nomenon. '  When,'  he  said  impressively,  '  when 
you  are  tempted  to  judge  sin  from  its  superficial 
appearance,  and  to  judge  it  leniently,  remember 
that  sins  are  like  icebergs — the  greater  part  of  them 
is  out  of  sight  \ ' 

A  certain  amount  of  anxiety  was  felt,  I  confess, 
by  most  of  us  as  night  cast  her  sable  mantle  over 
sea  and  ice.  To  admire  an  iceberg  in  broad  daylight 
is  one  thing ;  to  be  racing  on  amidst  a  crowd  of 
them  by  night  is  quite  another.  Ice,  however, 
casts  around  it  a  weird,  warning  light  of  its  own, 
which  makes  its  presence  perceptible  even  in  the 
darkest  night.  So  all  night  long  the  good  ship  sped 
bravely  on  her  ocean  track,  and  all  night  long  the 
captain  himself  kept  cold  and  sleepless  vigil  on  the 
bridge.  When  morning  broke,  three  fresh  icebergs 
were  to  be  seen  away  over  the  stern.  But  we  had 
now  shaped  a  more  northerly  course  ;  and  we  there- 
fore waved  adieu  to  these  magnificent  monsters 
which  we  were  so  delighted  to  have  seen,  and  scarcely 
less  pleased  to  have  left.  They  will  doubtless  have 
melted  from  existence  long  before  they  will  have 
melted  from  our  memories. 

Yes,  they  will  have  melted !  And  that  reminds 
me  of  another  famous  saying  of  the  great  Dr  Thomas 


204  Among  the  Icebergs 

Guthrie,  a  saying  which  is  peculiarly  to  the  point 
just  now.  '  The  existence/  he  said, '  of  the  Moham- 
medan power  in  Turkey  is  just  a  question  of  time. 
Its  foundations  are  year  by  year  wearing  away, 
like  that  of  an  iceberg  which  has  floated  into  warm 
seas,  and,  as  happens  with  that  creation  of  a  cold 
climate,  it  will  by-and-by  become  top-heavy,  the 
centre  of  gravity  being  changed,  and  it  will  topple 
over !  What  a  commotion  then ! '  Ah !  what 
a  commotion,  to  be  sure  ! 

They  will  have  melted !  Silly  things !  They 
grew  weary  of  that  realm  of  white  and  stainless 
purity  to  which  they  once  belonged ;  they  broke 
away  from  their  old  connexions  and  set  out  upon  their 
long,  long  drift.  They  drifted  on  and  on  towards 
the  milder  north ;  on  and  on  towards  warmer  seas ; 
on  and  on  towards  the  balmy  breath  and  ceaseless 
sunshine  of  the  tropics.  And,  in  return,  the  sun- 
shine destroyed  them.  Yes,  the  sunshine  destroyed 
them.  I  have  seen  something  very  much  like  it  in 
the  Church  and  in  the  world.  '  Therefore,'  says  a 
great  writer,  who  had  himself  felt  the  fatal  lure  of 
too-much-sunshine,  '  therefore  let  us  take  the  more 
steadfast  hold  of  the  things  which  we  have  heard, 
lest  at  any  time  we  drift  away  from  them/  It  is  a 
tragedy  of  no  small  magnitude  when,  like  the  iceberg, 
a  man  is  lured  by  sparkling  summer  seas  to  his  own 
undoing. 


PART  III 


I 

A  BOX  OF  TIN  SOLDIERS 

No  philosophy  is  worth  its  salt  unless  it  can  make 
a  boy  forget  that  he  has  the  toothache ;  and  the 
philosophy  which  I  am  about  to  introduce  has 
triumphantly  survived  that  exacting  ordeal.  That 
Jack  had  the  toothache  everybody  knew.  The 
expression  of  his  anguish  resounded  dismally  through 
the  neighbourhood ;  the  evidence  of  it  was  visible 
in  his  swollen  and  distorted  countenance.  Poor 
Jack !  All  the  standard  cures — old-fashioned  and 
new-fangled — had  been  tried  in  vain ;  all  but  one. 
It  was  that  one  that  at  last  relieved  the  pain,  and  it 
is  of  that  one  that  I  now  write.  It  happened  that 
Jack  was  within  a  week  of  his  birthday.  His 
parents,  who  are  busy  people,  might  easily  have 
overlooked  that  interesting  circumstance  had  not 
Jack  chanced  to  allude  to  it  at  every  opportune 
and  inopportune  moment  during  the  previous  month 
or  so.  Indeed,  to  guard  against  accidents,  Jack  had 
enlivened  the  conversation  at  the  breakfast-table 
morning  by  morning  with  really  ingenious  conjectures 
as  to  the  presents  by  which  his  personal  friends  might 
conceivably  accompany  their  congratulations.  His 

207 


208  A  Box  of  Tin  Soldiers 

expressions  of  disappointment  in  certain  suppositi- 
tious cases,  and  of  unbounded  delight  in  others, 
was  quite  affecting. 

Now  Jack's  father  is  afflicted  by  a  wholesome 
dread  of  shopping.  If  a  purchase  must  needs  be 
made,  Jack's  mother  has  to  make  it.  But  Jack's 
mother  labours  under  one  severe  disability.  As  Jack 
himself  often  tells  her — and  certainly  he  ought  to 
know — she  doesn't  understand  boys.  The  difficulty 
is  therefore  surmounted  on  this  wise.  Jack's 
mother  visits  the  emporium ;  carefully  avoids  all 
those  goods  and  chattels  of  which  she  has  heard  her 
son  speak  with  such  withering  disdain ;  selects 
eight  or  ten  of  the  articles  that  he  has  chanced  to 
mention  in  tones  of  undisguised  approval ;  orders 
these  to  be  sent  on  approval  at  an  hour  at  which 
Jack  will  be  sure  to  be  at  school ;  and  leaves  to  her 
husband  the  responsibility  of  making  the  final 
decision.  Now  this  unwieldy  parcel  was  still  lying 
under  the  bed  in  the  spare  room  on  that  fateful 
morning  when  Jack  became  smitten  with  toothache. 
Every  other  nostrum  having  failed,  the  mind  of 
Jack's  mother  strangely  turned  to  the  toys  beneath 
the  bed.  A  woman's  mind  is  an  odd  piece  of 
mechanism,  and  works  in  strange  ways.  No  doctor 
under  the  sun  would  dream  of  prescribing  a  box  of 
tin  soldiers  as  a  remedy  for  toothache  ;  yet  the  mind 
of  Jack's  mother  fastened  upon  that  box  of  tin 


A  Box  of  Tin  Soldiers  209 

soldiers.  It  was  just  as  cheap  as  some  of  the  other 
remedies  to  which  they  had  so  desperately  resorted ; 
and  it  could  not  possibly  be  less  efficacious.  And 
there  would  still  be  plenty  of  toys  to  choose  from 
for  the  birthday  present.  Out  came  the  box  of 
soldiers,  and  off  went  Jack  in  greatest  glee.  Half  an 
hour  later  his  mother  found  him  in  the  back  garden. 
He  had  dug  a  trench  two  inches  deep,  piling  up  the 
earth  in  protective  heaps  in  front  of  it.  All  along  the 
trench  stood  the  little  tin  soldiers  heroically  defying 
the  armies  of  the  universe.  And  the  toothache  was 
ancient  history ! 

Jack  managed  to  get  his  little  tin  soldiers  into  a 
tiny  two-inch  trench ;  but,  as  a  matter  of  serious 
fact,  those  diminutive  warriors  have  occupied  a 
really  great  place  in  the  story  of  this  little  world 
Bagehot  somewhere  draws  a  pathetic  picture  of 
crowds  of  potential  authors  who,  having  the  time> 
the  desire,  and  the  ability  to  write,  are  yet  unable 
for  the  life  of  them  to  think  of  anything  to  write 
about.  Let  one  of  these  unfortunates  bend  his 
unconsecrated  energies  to  the  writing  of  a  book  on  the 
influence  of  toys  in  the  making  of  men.  Only  the 
other  day  an  antiquarian,  digging  away  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  the  Pyramids,  came  upon  an  old 
toy-chest.  Here  were  dolls,  and  soldiers,  and 
wooden  animals,  and,  indeed,  all  the  playthings  that 
make  up  the  stock-in-trade  of  a  modern  nursery. 

o 


3io  A  Box  of  Tin  Soldiers 

It  is  pleasant  to  think  of  those  small  Egyptians  in  the 
days  of  the  Pharaohs  amusing  themselves  with  the 
selfsame  toys  that  beguiled  our  own  childhood. 
It  is  pleasant  to  think  of  the  place  of  the  toy-chest 
in  the  history  of  the  world  from  that  remote  time 
down  to  our  own. 

But  I  must  not  be  deflected  into  a  discussion  of 
the  whole  tremendous  subject  of  toys.  I  must 
stick  to  these  little  tin  soldiers.  And  these  small 
metallic  warriors  cut  a  really  brave  figure  in  our 
history.  Some  of  the  happiest  days  in  Robert 
Louis  Stevenson's  happy  life  were  the  days  that  he 
spent  as  a  boy  in  his  grandfather's  manse  at  Colinton. 
'  That  was  my  golden  age  ! '  he  used  to  say.  He 
never  forgot  the  rickety  old  phaeton  that  drove  into 
Edinburgh  to  fetch  him  ;  the  lovely  scenery  on  either 
side  of  the  winding  country  road ;  or  the  excited 
welcome  that  always  awaited  him  when  he  drove 
up  to  the  manse  door.  But  most  vividly  of  all  he 
remembered  the  box  of  tin  soldiers  ;  the  marshalling 
of  huge  armies  on  the  great  mahogany  table ;  the 
play  of  strategy ;  the  furious  combat ;  and  the  final 
glorious  victory.  The  old  gentleman  sat  back  in 
his  spacious  arm-chair,  cracking  his  nuts  and  sipping 
his  wine,  whilst  his  imaginative  little  grandson  in 
his  velvet  suit  controlled  the  movements  of  armies 
and  the  fates  of  empires.  The  love  of  those  little 
tin  soldiers  never  forsook  him.  Later  on,  at  Davos, 


A  Box  of  Tin  Soldiers  211 

an  exile  from  home,  fighting  bravely  against  that 
terrible  malady  that  had  marked  him  as  its  prey, 
it  was  to  the  little  tin  soldiers  that  he  turned  for 
comfort.     '  The  tin  soldiers  most  took  his  fancy,' 
says  Mr.  Lloyd  Osbourne,  '  and  the  war  game  was 
constantly  improved  and  elaborated,  until,  from  a 
few  hours,  a  war  took  weeks  to  play,  and  the  critical 
operations  in  the  attic  monopolized  half  our  thoughts. 
On  the  floor  a  map  was  roughly  drawn  in  chalks  of 
different   colours,    with   mountains,    rivers,    towns, 
bridges,   and    roads    in   two    colours.     The   mimic 
battalions  marched  and  countermarched,  changed 
by  measured  evolutions  from  column  formation  into 
line,  with  cavalry  screens  in  front  and  massed  sup- 
ports behind  in  the  most  approved  military  fashion 
of  to-day.     It  was  war  in  miniature,  even  to  the 
making  and  destruction  of  bridges ;  the  entrenching 
of  camps  ;  good  and  bad  weather,  with  corresponding 
influence  on  the  roads ;  siege  and  horse  artillery, 
proportionately  slow,  as  compared  with  the  speed 
of   unimpeded  foot,  and  proportionately  expensive 
in  the  upkeep  ;  and  an  exacting  commissariat  added 
the  last  touch  of  verisimilitude.'     Those  little  tin 
soldiers  marched  up  and  down  the  .whole  of  Robert 
Louis   Stevenson's  life.     They  were  with  him  in 
boyhood  at  Colinton  ;  they  were  with  him  in  maturity 
at  Davos  ;  and  they  were  in  at  the  death.     For,  in 
the  familiar  house  at   Vailima,  the  house  on  the 


212  A  Box  of  Tin  Soldiers 

top  of  the  hill,  the  house  from  which  his  gentle 
spirit  passed  away,  there  was  one  room  dedicated  to 
the  little  tin  soldiers.  The  great  coloured  map 
monopolized  the  floor,  and  the  tiny  regiments 
marched  or  halted  at  their  frail  commander's  will. 
One  could  multiply  examples  almost  endlessly. 
We  need  not  have  followed  Robert  Louis  Stevenson 
half-way  round  the  world.  We  might  have  visited 
Ireland  and  seen  Mr.  Parnell's  box  of  toys.  Every- 
body knows  the  story  of  his  victory  over  his  sister. 
Fanny  commanded  one  division  of  tin  soldiers  on 
the  nursery  floor ;  Charles  led  the  opposing  force. 
Each  general  was  possessed  of  a  popgun,  and  swept 
the  serried  lines  of  the  enemy  with  this  terrible 
weapon.  For  several  days  the  war  continued 
without  apparent  advantage  being  gained  by  either 
side.  But  one  day  everything  was  changed.  Strange 
as  it  may  seem,  Fanny's  soldiers  fell  by  the  score  and 
by  the  hundred,  while  those  commanded  by  her 
brother  refused  to  waver  even  when  palpably  hit. 
This  went  on  until  Fanny's  army  was  utterly  anni- 
hilated. But  Charles  confessed,  an  hour  later,  that, 
before  opening  fire  that  morning,  he  had  taken 
the  precaution  to  glue  the  feet  of  his  soldiers  to  the 
nursery  floor !  Did  somebody  discover  in  those 
war  games  at  Colinton,  Davos,  and  Vailima  a 
reflection,  as  hi  a  mirror,  of  the  adventurous  spirit 
of  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  ?  Or,  even  more  clearly, 


A  Box  of  Tin  Soldiers  213 

did  somebody  see,  in  that  famous  fight  on  the  nursery 
floor  at  Avondale,  a  forecast  of  the  great  Irish 
leader's  passionate  fondness  for  outwitting  his 
antagonists  and  overwhelming  his  bewildered  foe  ? 

Then  let  us  glance  at  one  other  picture,  and  we 
shall  see  what  we  shall  see  !  We  are  in  Russia  now. 
It  is  at  the  close  of  the  seventeenth  century.  Yonder 
is  a  boy  of  whom  the  world  will  one  day  talk  till  its 
tongue  is  tired.  They  will  call  him  Peter  the  Great. 
See,  he  gathers  together  all  the  boys  of  the  neighbour- 
hood and  plays  with  them.  Plays — but  at  what? 
'  He  plays  soldiers,  of  course,'  says  Waliszewski, 
'  and,  naturally,  he  was  in  command.  Behold  him, 
then,  at  the  head  of  a  regiment !  Out  of  this 
childish  play  rose  that  mighty  creation,  the  Russian 
army.  Yes/  our  Russian  author  goes  on  to  ex- 
claim, '  yes,  this  double  point  of  departure — the 
pseudo-naval  games  on  the  lake  of  Pereislavl,  and 
the  pseudo-military  games  on  the  Preobrajenskoie 
drill-ground — led  to  the  double  goal — the  Conquest 
of  the  Baltic  and  the  Battle  of  Poltava ! '  Yes,  to 
these,  and  to  how  much  else  ?  When  Jack  cures 
his  toothache  with  a  box  of  soldiers,  who  knows  what 
world-shaking  evolutions  are  afoot  ? 

And  now  the  time  has  come  to  make  a  serious 
investigation.  Why  is  Jack — taking  Jack  now  as 
the  federal  head  and  natural  representative  of 
Robert  Louis  Stevenson,'  Charles  Stewart  Parnell 


214  A  Box  of  Tin  Soldiers 

Peter  the  Great,  and  all  the  boys  who  ever  were, 
are,  or  will  be — why  is  Jack  so  inordinately  fond  of 
a  box  of  soldiers  ?  By  what  magic  have  those  tiny 
tin  campaigners  the  power  to  exorcise  the  agonies  of 
toothache  ?  Now  look ;  the  answer  is  simple,  and  it 
is  twofold.  The  small  metallic  warriors  appeal  to 
the  innate  love  of  Conquest  and  to  the  innate  love  of 
Command.  And  in  that  innate  love  of  Conquest  is 
summed  up  all  Jack's  future  relationship  to  his  foes. 
And  in  that  innate  love  of  Command  is  summed 
up  all  his  future  relationship  to  his  friends.  For 
long,  long  ago,  in  the  babyhood  of  the  world,  God 
spoke  to  man  for  the  first  time.  And  in  that 
very  first  sentence,  God  said,  '  Subdue  the  earth  and 
have  dominion  ! '  '  Subdue  ! ' — that  is  Conquest ; 
"  have  dominion  ! ' — that  is  Command.  And  since 
the  first  man  heard  those  martial  words,  'Subdue 
and  have  dominion ! '  the  passions  of  the  conqueror 
and  the  commander  have  tingled  in  the  blood  of 
the  race.  They  have  been  awakened  in  Jack  by 
the  box  of  soldiers.  He  feels  that  he  is  born  to 
fight,  born  to  struggle,  born  to  overcome,  born  to 
triumph,  born  to  command.  And  that  fighting  in- 
stinct will  never  really  desert  him.  It  will  follow  him, 
as  it  followed  Stevenson,  from  infancy  to  death. 
He  may  put  it  to  evil  uses.  He  may  fight  the 
wrong  people,  or  fight  the  wrong  things.  But  that  only 
shows  how  vital  a  business  is  his  training.  A  naval 


A  Box  of  Tin  Soldiers  215 

officer  has  to  spend  half  his  time  familiarizing  himself 
with  the  appearance  of  all  our  British  battleships, 
in  all  lights  and  at  all  angles,  so  that  he  may  never 
be  misled,  amidst  the  confusion  of  battle,  into  opening 
fire  upon  his  comrades.  As  Jack  looks  up  to  us 
from  his  little  two-inch  trenches,  his  innocent  eyes 
seem  to  appeal  eloquently  for  similar  tuition. 

'  Teach  me  what  those  forces  are  that  I  have  to 
conquer,'  he  seems  to  say,  '  then  teach  me  what 
forces  I  have  to  command,  and  I  will  spend  all  my 
days  in  the  Holy  War.' 

And,  depend  upon  it,  if  we  can  show  Jack  how 
to  bend  to  his  will  all  the  mysterious  forces  at  his 
disposal,  and  to  recognize  at  a  glance  all  the  alien 
forces  that  are  ranged  against  him,  we  shall  see  him 
one  day  among  the  conquerors  who,  with  songs  of 
victory  on  their  lips  and  with  palms  in  their  hands, 
share  the  rapture  of  the  world's  last  triumph. 


II 

LOVE,   MUSIC,    AND   SALAD 

IT  seems  an  odd  mixture  at  first  glance ;  but  it 
isn't  mine.  Mr.  Wilkie  Collins  is  responsible  for 
the  amazing  hotch-potch.  '  What  do  you  say,' 
he  asks  in  The  Moonstone,  '  what  do  you  say  when 
our  county  member,  growing  hot,  at  cheese  and 
salad  time,  about  the  spread  of  democracy  in 
England,  burst  out  as  follows  :  "  If  we  once  lose  our 
ancient  safeguards,  Mr.  Blake,  I  beg  to  ask  you,  what 
have  we  got  left  ?  "  And  what  do  you  say  to  Mr. 
Franklin  answering,  from  the  Italian  point  of  view, 
"  We  have  got  three  things  left,  sir — Love,  Music, 
and  Salad  "  '  ?  I  confess  that,  when  first  I  came 
upon  this  curious  conglomeration,  I  thought  that 
Mr.  Franklin  meant  Love,  Music,  and  Salad  to  stand 
for  a  mere  incomprehensible  confusion,  a  meaningless 
jumble.  I  examined  the  sentence  a  second  time, 
however,  and  began  to  suspect  that  there  was  at 
least  some  method  in  his  madness.  And  now  that 
I  scrutinize  it  still  more  closely,  I  feel  ashamed  of 
my  first  hasty  judgement.  I  can  see  that  Love, 
Music,  and  Salad  are  the  fundamental  elements  of 

216 


Love,  Music,  and  Salad  217 

the  solar  system ;  and,  as  Mr.  Franklin  suggests, 
so  long  as  they  are  left  to  us  we  can  afford  to  smile 
at  any  political  convulsions  that  may  chance  to 
overtake  us. 

Love,  Music,  and  Salad  are  the  three  biggest 
things  in  life.  Mr.  Franklin  has  not  only  outlined 
the  situation  with  extraordinary  precision,  but  he 
has  placed  these  three  basic  factors  in  their  exact 
scientific  order.  Love  comes  first.  Indeed,  we 
only  come  because  Love  calls  for  us.  We  find  it 
waiting  with  outstretched  arms  on  arrival.  It 
smothers  our  babyhood  with  kisses,  and  hedges  our 
infancy  about  with  its  ceaseless  ministry  of  doting 
affection.  Love  is  the  beginning  of  everything ; 
I  need  not  labour  that  point.  Where  there  is  no 
love  there  is  neither  music  nor  salad,  nor  anything 
else  worth  writing  about. 

Mr.  Franklin  was  indisputably  right  in  putting 
Love  first,  and  immediately  adding  Music.  You 
cannot  imagine  Love  without  Music.  I  am  hoping 
that  one  of  these  days  one  of  our  philosophers  will 
give  us  a  book  on  the  language  that  does  not  need 
learning.  There  is  room  for  a  really  fine  volume 
on  that  captivating  theme.  Henry  Drummond 
has  a  most  fascinating  and  characteristic  essay  on 
The  Evolution  of  Language  ;  but  from  my  present 
standpoint  it  is  sadly  disappointing.  From  first 
to  last  Drummond  works  on  the  assumption  that 


218  Love,  Music,  and  Salad 

human  language  is  a  thing  of  imitation  and  acquisi- 
tion. The  foundation  of  it  all,  he  tells  us,  is  in  the 
forest.  Man  heard  the  howl  of  the  dog,  the  neigh 
of  the  horse,  the  bleat  of  the  lamb,  the  stamp  of  the 
goat ;  and  he  deliberately  copied  these  sounds.  He 
noticed,  too,  that  each  animal  has  sounds  specially 
adapted  for  particular  occasions.  One  monkey, 
we  are  told,  utters  at  least  six  different  sounds  to 
express  its  feelings ;  and  Darwin  discovered  four  or 
five  modulations  in  the  bark  of  the  dog.  '  There  is 
the  bark  of  eagerness,  as  in  the  chase;  that  of 
anger,  as  well  as  growling ;  the  yelp  or  howl  of  des- 
pair, as  when  shut  up ;  the  baying  at  night ;  the 
bark  of  joy,  as  when  starting  on  a  walk  with  his 
master;  and  the  very  distinct  one  of  demand  or 
supplication,  as  when  wishing  for  a  door  or  window 
to  be  opened.'  Drummond  appears  to  assume  that 
primitive  man  listened  to  these  sounds  and  copied 
them,  much  as  a  child  speaks  of  the  bow-wow,  the 
moo-moo,  the  quack-quack,  the  tick-tick,  and  the 
puff-puff.  But  in  all  this  we  leave  out  of  our  reckon- 
ing one  vital  factor.  The  most  expressive  language 
that  we  ever  speak  is  the  language  that  we  never 
learned.  As  Darwin  himself  points  out,  there 
are  certain  simple  and  vivid  feelings  which  we 
express,  and  express  with  the  utmost  clearness, 
but  without  any  kind  of  reference  to  our  higher 
intelligence.  '  Our  cries  of  pain,  fear,  surprise, 


Love,  Music,  and  Salad  219 

anger,  together  with  their  appropriate  actions,  and 
the  murmur  of  a  mother  to  her  beloved  child,  are 
more  expressive  than  any  words.' 

Is  not  this  a  confession  of  the  fact  that  the  soul, 
in  its  greatest  moments,  speaks  a  language,  not  of 
imitation  or  of  acquisition,  but  one  that  it  brought 
with  it,  a  language  of  its  own  ?  The  language  that 
we  learn  varies  according  to  nationality.  The 
speech  of  a  Chinaman  is  an  incomprehensible  jargon 
to  a  Briton  ;  the  utterance  of  a  Frenchman  is  a  mere 
riot  of  sound  to  a  Hindu.  The  language  that  we 
learn  is  affected  even  by  dialects,  so  that  a  man  in 
one  English  county  finds  it  by  no  means  easy  to 
interpret  the  speech  of  a  visitor  from  another. 
It  is  even  affected  by  rank  and  position  ;  the  speech 
of  the  plough-boy  is  one  thing,  the  speech  of  the 
courtier  is  quite  another.  So  confusing  is  the 
language  that  we  learn  !  But  let  a  man  speak  in 
the  language  that  needs  no  learning  ;  and  all  the 
world  will  understand  him.  The  cry  of  a  child  in 
pain  is  the  same  in  Iceland  as  in  India,  in  Hobart  as 
in  Timbuctoo !  The  soft  and  wordless  crooning  of 
a  mother  as  she  lulls  her  babe  to  rest ;  the  scream 
of  a  man  in  mortal  anguish ;  the  sudden  outburst 
of  uncontrollable  laughter ;  the  sigh  of  regret ;  the 
titter  of  amusement ;  and  the  piteous  cry  of  a  broken 
heart, — these  know  neither  nationality  nor  rank 
nor  station  They  are  the  same  in  castle  as  in 


220  Love,  Music,  and  Salad 

cottage ;  in  Tasmania  as  in  Thibet ;  in  the  world's 
first  morning  as  in  the  world's  last  night.  The  most 
expressive  language,  the  only  language  in  which  the 
soul  itself  ever  really  speaks,  is  a  language  without 
alphabet  or  grammar.  It  needs  neither  to  be 
learned  nor  taught,  for  all  men  speak  it,  and  all 
men  understand. 

Was  that,  consciously  or  subconsciously,  at  the 
back  of  Mr.  Franklin's  mind  when  he  put  Music  next 
to  Love  ?  Certain  it  is  that,  in  that  unwritten  lan- 
guage which  is  greater  than  all  speech,  Music  is  the 
natural  expression  of  Love.  Why  is  there  music  in 
the  grove  and  the  forest  ?  It  is  because  love  is 
there.  The  birds  never  sing  so  sweetly  as  during  the 
mating  season.  For  awhile  the  male  bird  hovers 
about  the  person  of  his  desired  bride,  and  pours  out 
an  incessant  torrent  of  song  in  the  fond  hope  of  one 
day  winning  her  ;  and  when  his  purpose  is  achieved, 
he  goes  on  singing  for  very  joy  that  she  is  his.  And 
afterwards  he  '  gallantly  perches  near  the  little 
home,  pouring  forth  his  joy  and  pride,  sweetly 
singing  to  his  mate  as  she  sits  within  the  nest, 
patiently  hatching  her  brood.'  Both  in  men  and 
women  it  is  at  the  approach  of  the  love-making  age 
that  the  voice  suddenly  develops,  and  it  is  when  the 
deepest  chords  in  the  soul  are  first  struck  that  the 
richest  and  fullest  notes  can  be  sung. 

Music,  then,  is  the  natural  concomitant  of  Love. 


Love,  Music,  and  Salad  221 

That  is  why  most  of  our  songs  are  love-songs.  If  a 
man  is  in  love  he  can  no  more  help  singing  than  a 
bird  can  help  flying.  You  cannot  love  anything 
without  singing  about  it.  Men  love  God ;  that  is 
why  we  have  hymn-books.  Men  love  women  ;  that 
is  why  we  have  ballads.  Men  love  their  country ; 
that  is  why  we  have  national  anthems  and  patriotic 
airs. 

But  the  stroke  of  genius  in  Mr.  Franklin  lay  in  the 
addition  of  the  Salad.  If  he  had  contented  himself 
with  Love  and  Music,  he  would  have  uttered  a 
truth,  and  a  great  truth  ;  but  it  would  have  been  a 
commonplace  truth.  As  it  is,  he  lifts  the  whole  thing 
into  the  realm  of  brilliance — and  reality.  For,  after 
all,  of  what  earthly  use  are  Love  and  Music  unless 
they  lead  to  Salad?  When  to  Love  and  Music 
Mr.  Franklin  shrewdly  added  Salad,  he  put  himself 
in  line  with  the  greatest  philosophers  of  all  time. 
Bishop  Butler  told  us  years  ago  that  if  we  allow 
emotions  which  are  designed  to  lead  to  action  to 
become  excited,  and  no  action  follows,  the  very 
excitation  of  that  emotion  without  its  appropriate 
response  leaves  the  heart  much  harder  than  it  was 
before.  And,  more  recently,  our  brilliant  Harvard 
Professor,  Dr.  William  James,  has  warned  us  that  it 
is  a  very  damaging  thing  for  the  mind  to  receive  an 
impression  without  giving  that  impression  an  ade- 
quate and  commensurate  expression.  If  you  go  to  a 


222  Love,  Music,  and  Salad 

concert,  he  says,  and  hear  a  lovely  song  that  deeply 
moves  you,  you  ought  to  pay  some  poor  person's 
tram  fare  on  the  way  home.  It  is  a  natural  as  well 
as  a  psychological  law.  The  earth,  for  example, 
receives  the  impression  represented  by  the  fall  of 
autumn  leaves,  the  descent  of  sap  from  the  bough, 
and  the  widespread  decay  of  wintry  desolation. 
But  she  hastens  to  give  expression  to  this  impression 
by  all  the  wealth  and  plenitude  of  her  glorious  spring 
array. 

The  New  Testament  gives  us  a  great  story  which 
exactly  illustrates  my  point.  It  is  a  very  graceful 
and  tender  record,  full  of  Love  and  Music,  but 
containing  also  something  more  than  Love  and 
Music.  For  when  Dorcas  died  all  the  widows  stood 
weeping  in  the  chamber  of  death,  showing  the  coats 
that  Dorcas  had  made  while  she  was  yet  with  them. 
Dorcas  was  a  Jewess.  At  one  time  she  had  been 
taught  to  regard  the  name  of  Jesus  as  a  thing  to  be 
abhorred  and  accursed.  But  later  on  a  wonderful 
experience  befell  her.  Could  she  ever  forget  the 
day  on  which,  amidst  a  whirl  of  spiritual  bewilder- 
ment and  a  tempest  of  spiritual  emotion,  she  had 
discovered,  in  the  very  Messiah  whom  once  she  had 
despised,  her  Saviour  and  her  Lord  ?  It  was  a  day 
never  to  be  forgotten,  a  day  full  of  Love  and  Music. 
How  could  she  produce  an  expression  adequate  to 
that  wonderful  impression  ?  Not  in  words ;  for 


Love,  Music,  and  Salad  223 

she  was  not  gifted  with  speech.  Yet  an  expression 
must  be  found.  It  would  have  been  a  fatal  thing  for 
the  delicate  soul  of  Dorcas  if  so  turgid  a  flood  of 
feeling  had  found  no  apt  and  natural  outlet.  And  in 
that  crisis  she  thought  of  her  needle.  She  expressed 
her  love  for  the  Lord  in  the  occupation  most  familiar 
to  her.  It  was  a  kind  of  storage  of  energy.  Dorcas 
wove  her  love  for  her  Lord  into  every  stitch,  and  a 
tender  thought  into  every  stitch,  and  a  fervent  prayer 
into  every  stitch.  And  that  spiritual  storage  escaped 
through  warm  coats  and  neat  garments  into  the  hearts 
and  homes  of  these  widows  and  poor  folk  along  the 
coast,  and  they  learned  the  depth  and  tenderness 
of  the  divine  love  from  the  deft  finger-tips  of 
Dorcas. 

Salad  is  the  natural  and  fitting  outcome  of  Love 
and  Music.  I  have  already  confessed  that  when  first 
I  came  upon  the  triune  conjunction  I  thought  it 
rather  an  incongruous  medley,  a  strange  hotch- 
potch, an  ill-assorted  company.  That  is  the  worst 
of  judging  things  in  a  hurry.  The  eye  does  the 
work  of  the  brain,  and  does  it  badly.  It  is  a  common 
failing  of  ours.  Look  at  the  torrent  of  toothless 
jokes  that  have  been  directed  at  the  contrast  between 
the  romance  of  courtship  and  the  domestic  realities 
that  follow.  The  former,  according  to  the  traditional 
estimate,  consists  of  billing  and  cooing,  of  fervent 
protestations  and  radiant  dreams,  of  romantic 


224  Love,  Music,  and  Salad 

loveliness  and  honeyed  phrases.  The  latter,  accord- 
ing to  the  same  traditional  view,  consists  of  struggle 
and  anxiety,  of  drudgery  and  menial  toil,  of  broken 
nights  with  tiresome  children,  of  nerve-racking 
anxiety  and  an  endless  sequence  of  troubles.  He 
who  looks  at  life  in  this  way  makes  precisely  the 
same  mistake  that  I  myself  made  when  I  first  saw 
Mr.  Franklin's  Love,  Music,  and  Salad,  and  thought 
it  a  higgledy-piggledy  hotch-potch.  It  is  nothing 
of  the  kind.  Love  naturally  leads  to  Music ;  and 
Love  and  Music  naturally  lead  to  Salad.  Courtship 
leads  to  the  cradle  and  the  kitchen,  it  is  true; 
but  both  cradle  and  kitchen  are  glorified  and  con- 
secrated by  the  courtship  that  has  gone  before. 
Our  English  homes,  take  them  for  all  in  all,  are  the 
loveliest  things  in  the  world. 

The  merry  homes  of  England! 

Around  their  hearths  by  night, 
What  gladsome  looks  of  household  love 

Meet  in  the  ruddy  light ! 
There  woman's  voice  flows  forth  in  song, 

Or  childhood's  tale  is  told ; 
Or  lips  move  tunefully  along 

Some  glorious  page  of  old. 

Here  is  a  picture  of  Love,  Music,  and  Salad  in  perfect 
combination.  And  what  a  secret  lies  behind  it ! 
The  fact  is  that  the  heathen  world  has  nothing 
at  all  corresponding  to  our  English  sweethearting. 


Love,  Music,  and  Salad  225 

Men  and  women  are  thrown  into  each  other's  arms 
by  barter,  by  compact,  by  conquest,  and  in  a 
thousand  ways.  In  one  land  a  man  buys  his  bride  ; 
in  another  he  fights  as  the  brutes  do  for  the  mate 
of  his  fancy ;  in  yet  another  he  takes  her  without 
seeing  her,  it  was  so  ordained.  Only  in  a  land  that 
has  felt  the  spell  of  the  influence  of  Jesus  would 
sweethearting,  as  we  know  it,  be  possible.  The 
pure  and  charming  freedom  of  social  intercourse ; 
the  liberty  to  yield  to  the  mystic  magnetism  that 
draws  the  one  to  the  other,  and  the  other  to  the 
one ;  the  coy  approach ;  the  shy  exchanges ;  the 
arm-in-arm  walks,  and  the  heart-to-heart  talks ; 
the  growing  admiration ;  the  deepening  passion ; 
culminating  at  last  in  the  fond  formality  of  the 
engagement  and  the  rapture  of  ultimate  union ; 
in  what  land,  unsweetened  by  the  power  of  the 
gospel,  would  such  a  procedure  be  possible?  And 
the  consequence  is  that  our  homes  stand  in  such 
striking  contrast  to  the  homes  of  heathen  peoples. 
'  There  are  no  homes  in  Asia  ! '  Mr.  W.  H.  Seward, 
the  American  statesman,  exclaimed  sadly,  fifty 
years  ago.  It  is  scarcely  true  now,  for  Christ  is 
gaining  on  Asia  every  day ;  and  the  missionaries 
confess  that  the  greatest  propagating  power  that 
the  gospel  possesses  is  the  gracious  though  silent 
witness  of  the  Christian  homes.  Human  life  is 
robbed  of  all  animalism  and  baseness  when  true 


22t>  Love,  Music,  and  Salad 

love  enters.     And  there  is  no  true  love  apart  from 
the  highest  love  of  all. 

Salad  may  seem  a  prosaic  thing  to  follow  on  the 
heels  of  Love  and  Music  ;  but  the  salad  that  has  been 
prepared  by  fingers  that  one  thinks  it  heaven  to  kiss 
is  tinged  and  tinctured  with  the  flavour  of  romance. 
All  through  life,  Love  makes  life's  Music.  All 
through  life,  Love  and  Music  lead  to  Salad.  And, 
all  through  life,  Love  and  Music  glorify  the  Salad  to 
which  they  lead.  They  transmute  it  by  this  magic 
into  such  a  dish  as  many  a  king  has  sighed  for  all 
his  days,  but  sighed  in  vain. 


in 

THE  FELLING  OF  THE  TREE 

I  WAS  strolling  with  some  friends  up  a  lovely  avenue 
in  the  bush  this  afternoon,  when  a  quite  unexpected 
experience  befell  us.  On  either  side  of  the  narrow 
track  the  tall  trees  jostled  each  other  at  such  close 
quarters  that,  when  we  looked  up,  only  a  ribbon  of 
sky  could  be  seen  above  our  heads.  The  tree-tops 
almost  arched  over  us.  Straight  before  us  was  a 
hill  surmounted  by  a  number  of  gigantic  blue-gums, 
only  one  or  two  of  which  were  visible  in  the  limited 
section  of  the  landscape  which  the  foliage  about  us 
permitted  us  to  survey.  As  we  sauntered  leisurely 
along  the  leafy  path,  thinking  of  anything  but  the 
objects  immediately  surrounding  us,  we  were  sud- 
denly startled  by  a  loud  and  ominous  creaking  and 
straining.  Looking  hastily  up,  we  saw  one  of  the 
giant  trees  falling,  and  describing  in  its  fall  an 
enormous  arc  against  the  clear  sky  ahead  of  us. 
What  a  crash  as  the  toppling  monster  strikes  the 
tree-tops  among  which  it  falls  !  What  a  thud  as  the 
huge  thing  hits  the  ground  !  What  a  roar  as  it  rolls 
over  the  hill,  bearing  down  all  lesser  growths  before 
it !  Our  first  impression  was  that  the  tree  had 

337 


228  The  Felling  of  the  Tree 

been  reduced  by  natural  forces ;  but  we  soon  dis- 
covered that  it  had  been  deliberately  destroyed ! 
The  men  were  already  at  work  upon  a  second 
magnificent  fellow ;  and  we  waited  until  he  too  was 
prostrate. 

Nothing  in  the  solar  system  suggests  such  a 
mixture  of  emotion  as  the  felling  of  a  great  tree. 
In  a  way,  it  is  pleasant  and  exhilarating,  or  why 
was  Mr.  Gladstone  so  fond  of  the  exercise  ?  And 
why  were  we  so  eager  to  stay  until  the  second  tree 
was  down?  Richard  Jefferies,  who  hated  to  destroy 
things,  and  often  could  not  bring  himself  to  pull 
the  trigger  of  his  gun,  nevertheless  felt  the  fascination 
of  the  axe.  '  Much  as  I  admired  the  timber  about 
the  Chace/  he  says,  '  I  could  not  help  some  tunes 
wishing  to  have  a  chop  at  it.  The  pleasure  of 
felling  trees  is  never  lost.  In  youth,  in  manhood, 
so  long  as  the  arm  can  wield  the  axe,  the  enjoyment 
is  equally  keen.  As  the  heavy  tool  passes  over  the 
shoulder,  the  impetus  of  the  swinging  motion 
lightens  the  weight,  and  something  like  a  thrill 
passes  through  the  sinews.  Why  is  it  so  pleasant 
to  strike?  What  secret  instinct  is  it  that  makes  the 
delivery  of  a  blow  with  axe  or  hammer  so  exhil- 
arating ? '  What  indeed !  For  certainly  a  wild 
delight  makes  the  heart  beat  faster,  and  sends  the 
blood  bounding  through  the  veins,  as  one  sees  the 
axes  flash,  the  chips  fly,  the  gash  grow  deeper,  and 


The  Felling  o!  the  Tree  229 

notices  at  last  the  first  slow  movement  of  the  glorious 
tree. 

And  yet  I  confess  that,  mixed  with  this  pungent 
sense  of  pleasure,  there  was  a  still  deeper  emotion. 
The  thing  seems  so  irreparable.  It  is  easy  enough 
to  destroy  these  monarchs  of  the  bush,  but  who 
can  restore  them  to  their  former  grandeur?  It 
must  have  been  this  sense  of  sadness  that  led 
Beaconsfield — Gladstone's  famous  protagonist — to 
ordain  in  his  will  that  none  of  his  beloved  trees  at 
Hughenden  should  ever  be  cut  down.  How  long 
had  these  trees  stood  here,  these  two  giants  that  had 
been  in  a  few  moments  reduced  to  humiliating 
horizon tality  ?  I  cannot  tell.  They  must  have 
been  here  when  all  these  hills  and  valleys  were 
peopled  only  by  the  aboriginals.  They  saw  the 
black  man  prowl  about  the  bush.  From  the  hill 
here,  overlooking  the  bay,  they  must  have  seen 
Captain  Cook's  ships  cast  anchor  down  the  stream. 
They  watched  the  coming  of  the  white  men ;  they 
saw  the  convict  ships  arrive  with  their  dismal 
freight  of  human  wretchedness ;  they  witnessed 
the  swift  and  tragic  extermination  of  the  native 
race  ;  they  beheld  a  nation  spring  into  being  at  their 
feet !  Did  the  great  trees  know  that,  as  the  white 
men  exterminated  the  black  men,  so  the  white  men 
would  exterminate  them!  Did  they  feel  that  the 
coming  of  those  strange  vessels  up  the  bay  sealed 


230  The  Felling  of  the  Tree 

their  own  doom?  Before  the  new-comers  could 
build  their  homes,  or  lay  out  their  farms,  or  plant 
their  orchards,  they  must  make  war  on  the  trees 
with  fire  and  axe.  Homes  and  nations  can  only  be 
built  by  sacrifice,  and  the  trees  are  the  innocent 
victims. 

I  suppose  that  the  sadness  arises  partly  from  the 
fact  that  the  forest  is  Man's  oldest  and  most  faithful 
friend,  and  one  towards  whom  he  is  inclined  to  turn 
with  ever-increasing  reverence  and  affection  as  the 
years  go  by.  With  the  advance  of  the  years  we  all 
turn  wistfully  back  to  the  things  that  charmed  our 
infancy,  and  the  race  obeys  that  selfsame  primal 
law.  Almost  every  nation  on  the  face  of  the  earth 
traces  its  history  back  to  the  forest  primaeval. 
From  the  forest  we  sprang ;  and  by  the  forest  we 
were  originally  sustained.  And  even  when  at  length 
the  primitive  race  issued  from  those  leafy  recesses 
and  devoted  itself  to  agriculture  and  to  commerce, 
men  still  regarded  their  ancient  fastnesses  as  the 
storehouse  from  which  they  drew  everything  that 
was  essential  to  their  progress  and  development. 
Man  found  the  forest  his  warehouse,  his  factory, 
his  armoury,  his  all.  With  logs  that  he  felled  hi 
the  bush  he  built  his  first  primitive  home  ;  out  of 
branches  that  he  tore  from  the  trees  he  fashioned 
his  first  implements  and  tools ;  and  when  the  tran- 
quillity that  brooded  over  his  pastoral  simplicity 


The  Felling  of  the  Tree  231 

was  broken  by  the  shout  of  discord  and  the  noise 
of  tumult,  it  was  to  those  selfsame  woods  that  he 
rushed  for  his  first  crude  weapons  of  defence. 
Architecture,  agriculture,  invention,  and  military 
ingenuity  have  each  of  them  made  enormous  strides 
since  then  ;  but  it  was  in  the  bush  that  each  of  these 
potent  makers  of  our  destiny  was  born.  And  did 
not  John  Smeaton  confess  that  he  borrowed  from 
the  graceful  curve  of  the  oak  as  it  rises  from  the 
ground  the  main  idea  that  characterized  the  construc- 
tion of  the  Eddystone  lighthouse  ?  Whenever  the 
architect,  the  farmer,  the  inventor,  or  the  soldier 
desires  to  visit  the  scenes  amidst  which  his  craft 
spent  its  earliest  infancy,  it  will  be  to  the  forest 
primaeval  that  he  will  turn  his  steps.  Of  medicine, 
too,  the  same  may  be  said ;  for,  in  those  long  and 
leisured  days  of  sylvan  quiet,  men  learned  the  secrets 
of  the  bark  and  discovered  the  healing  virtues  that 
slept  in  the  swaying  leaves ;  and  straightway  the 
forest  became  a  pharmacy.  When,  exhausted  by  his 
labour,  or  enervated  by  unaccustomed  conditions, 
his  health  failed  him,  Man  resorted  for  his  first  drugs 
and  tonics  to  his  ancient  home  among  the  trees. 
Indeed,  he  still  returns  to  the  forest  to  be  nursed  and 
tended  in  his  hour  of  sickness. 

Those  who  have  read  Gene  Stratton  Porter's 
Harvester  know  what  wonders  lurk  in  the  woods. 
The  Harvester  lived  away  in  the  forest,  and  from 


232  The  Felling  of  the  Tree 

bark  and  gum  and  sap  and  leaf  he  collected  the 
tonics  and  anodynes  and  stimulants  that  he  sold  to 
the  chemists  in  the  great  cities.  And  after  awhile 
every  tree  that  he  felled  seemed  to  him  such  a 
wealthy  store  of  healing  virtue  that,  when  he  began 
to  think  of  his  dream-girl  and  his  future  home,  he 
could  scarcely  bring  himself  to  build  his  cabin  out 
of  logs  that  were  so  overflowing  with  medicinal 
properties.  He  was  hi  love,  and  all  the  tumultuous 
emotions  awakened  by  that  great  experience  were 
surging  through  his  veins ;  and  yet  it  seemed  to 
him  an  act  of  sacrilege  to  cut  chairs  and  tables  out 
of  such  sacred  things  as  trees!  He  apologetically 
explained  the  delicacy  of  the  situation  to  each  oak 
and  ash  before  lifting  his  axe  against  it. 

'  You  know  how  I  hate  to  kill  you  ! '  he  said  to 
the  first  one  he  felled.  '  But  it  must  be  legitimate, 
you  know,  for  a  man  to  take  enough  trees  to  build 
a  home.  And  no  other  house  is  possible  for  a  creature 
of  the  woods  but  a  cabin,  is  it  ?  The  birds  use  the 
material  they  find  here ;  and  surely  I  have  a  right 
to  do  the  same.  Nothing  else  would  serve,  at  least 
for  me.  I  was  born  and  reared  here,  and  I've 
always  loved  you  ! ' 

But  for  all  that,  he  felt,  as  the  fragrant  chips  flew 
in  all  directions,  just  as  a  man  might  feel  who  killed 
a  pet  lamb  for  the  table  ;  and  the  Harvester  could 
scarcely  reconcile  himself  to  his  iconoclastic  work. 


The  Felling  of  the  Tree  233 

In  Medicine  Woods  he  had  learned  the  awful  sanctity 
of  the  forest,  the  forest  that  was  the  home  and  nurse 
and  mother  of  us  all,  and  it  seemed  to  him  a  dreadful 
thing  to  slay  a  tree.  Frazer  tells  us  hi  his  Golden 
Bough  that  the  Ojibwa  Indians  very  rarely  cut  down 
green  or  living  trees ;  they  fancy  that  it  puts  the 
poor  things  to  such  pain.  And  some  of  their 
medicine  men  aver  that,  with  their  mysterious  powers 
of  hearing,  they  have  heard  the  wailing  and  the 
screaming  of  the  trees  beneath  the  axe.  Mr. 
Adams,  too,  hi  his  Israel's  Ideal,  has  reminded  us 
that,  in  Eastern  Africa,  the  destruction  of  the 
cocoanut-tree  is  regarded  as  a  form  of  matricide, 
since  that  tree  gives  men  life  and  nourishment  as 
a  mother  does  her  child.  The  early  Greek  philo- 
sophers, Aristotle  and  Plutarch,  watching  the  rustling 
of  the  leaves  and  the  swaying  of  the  graceful  branches, 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  trees  are  sentient  things 
possessed  of  living  souls.  And,  in  his  Tales  for 
Children,  Tolstoy  makes  as  pathetic  a  scene  out  of  the 
death  of  a  great  tree  as  many  a  novelist  makes  out 
of  the  death  of  a  gallant  hero. 

Now  it  must  have  been  out  of  this  strange  feeling 
— this  dim  consciousness  of  a  sacredness  that  haunted 
the  leafy  solitudes — that  Man  came  to  regard  the 
forest  with  superstitious  gratitude  and  veneration. 
The  bush  represented  to  him  the  source  of  all  his 
supplies,  the  reservoir  that  met  all  his  demands, 


234  The  Felling  of  the  Tree 

the  means  of  all  healing,  and  the  very  fountain  of 
life.  And  so  he  plunged  into  the  depths  of  the 
forest  and  erected  his  temples  there ;  in  its  shady 
groves  he  reared  his  solemn  altars ;  in  its  leafy 
glades  he  built  his  shrines ;  and  the  imagery  of  the 
forest  wove  itself  into  the  vocabulary  of  his  devotion. 
The  representation  of  a  sacred  tree  occurs  repeatedly, 
carved  upon  the  stony  ruins  of  Egyptian,  Assyrian, 
and  Phoenician  temples,  and  Herodotus  more  than 
once  remarks  upon  the  frequency  of  tree-worship 
among  the  ancient  peoples.  Pliny,  too,  marvelled 
at  the  reverence  which  the  Druids  felt  for  the  oak, 
and,  in  a  scarcely  less  degree,  for  the  holly,  the  ash, 
and  the  birch.  And  what  stirring  passages  those  are 
in  which  George  Borrow  describes  the  weird  rites 
and  dark  symbolism  of  the  gipsies  as  they  worshipped 
at  dead  of  night  in  the  fearsome  recesses  of  the 
pine  forests  of  Spain  ! 

It  is  really  not  surprising  that  this  haunting  sense 
of  sanctity  in  the  woods  should  lead  Man  to  worship 
there.  Even  Emerson  felt  that — 

The  Gods  talk  in  the  breath  of  the  woods, 
They  talk  in  the  shaken  pine. 

And  the  Harvester  himself  found  the  forest  to  be 
instinct  with  moral  and  spiritual  potencies.  '  You 
not  only  discover  miracles  and  marvels  in  the  woods,' 
he  said,  '  but  you  get  the  greatest  lessons  taught 


The  Felling  of  the  Tree  235 

in  all  the  world  ground  into  you  early  and  alone — 
courage,  caution,  and  patience.'  Here,  then,  we  have 
the  trees  as  teachers  and  preachers,  and  many  a  man 
has  learned  the  deepest  lessons  of  his  life  at  the  feet 
of  these  shrewd  and  silent  philosophers.  What 
about  Brother  Lawrence,  whose  Practice  of  the 
Presence  of  God  has  become  one  of  the  Church's 
classics  ?  '  The  first  time  I  saw  Brother  Lawrence,' 
writes  his  friend,  '  was  upon  August  3,  1666.  He 
told  me  that  God  had  done  him  a  singular  favour 
in  his  conversion  at  the  age  of  eighteen.  It  happened 
in  this  way.  One  winter  morning,  seeing  a  tree 
stripped  of  its  leaves,  and  considering  that  within 
a  little  time  the  leaves  would  be  renewed,  and  that 
after  that  the  flowers  and  fruit  would  appear,  he 
received  a  high  view  of  the  providence  and  power 
of  God,  which  has  never  since  been  effaced  from  his 
soul.'  What  God  could  do  for  the  leafless  tree,  he 
thought,  He  could  also  do  for  him. 

Milton  tells  us  that  the  forest,  which  has  played 
so  large  a  part  in  the  development  of  this  world,  will 
flourish  also  in  the  next. 

In  heaven  the  trees 

Of  life  ambrosial  fruitage  bear,  and  vines 
Yield  nectar. 

And,  having  all  this  in  mind,  is  it  not  pleasant  to 
notice  that  the  very  last  chapter  of  the  Bible  tells 


236  The  Felling  of  the  Tree 

of  the  tree  that  waves  by  the  side  of  the  river  of 
life?  There  is  something  sacramental  about  trees. 
George  Gissing  says  that  Odysseus  cutting  down  the 
olive  in  order  to  build  for  himself  a  home  is  a  picture 
of  man  performing  a  supreme  act  of  piety.  '  Through 
all  the  ages,'  he  says,  '  that  picture  must  retain  its 
profound  significance.'  The  trees  of  Medicine  Woods 
yielded  up  their  life  to  the  Harvester's  axe,  that  he 
and  his  dream-girl  might  dwell  in  security  and  bliss. 
And,  on  a  green  hill  far  away  without  a  city  wall, 
another  tree  was  cut  down  years  ago,  that  it  might 
represent  to  all  men  everywhere  the  means  of  grace 
and  the  hope  of  glory.  And  even  more  than  all  the 
other  trees,  the  leaves  of  that  tree  are  for  the  healing 
of  the  nations. 


IV 
SPOIL ! 

WE  were  sitting  round  the  fire  last  night  when  a 
boy  came  rushing  up  the  street  shouting,  '  The  latest 
war  news.'  I  went  to  the  door,  bought  a  paper, 
and  settled  down  again  to  read  it.  All  at  once  the 
word '  siege  '  caught  my  eye,  and,  after  glancing  over 
the  cablegram  to  which  it  referred,  I  lay  back  hi  the 
chair  and  allowed  my  mind  to  roam  among  the 
romantic  recollections  that  the  great  word  had 
suggested.  I  thought  of  the  Siege  of  Lucknow  in 
the  East,  of  the  Siege  of  Mexico  in  the  West,  and 
of  the  Siege  of  Londonderry  midway  between. 
Who  that  has  once  read  the  thrilling  narratives 
of  these  famous  exploits  can  resist  the  temptation 
occasionally  to  set  his  fancy  free  to  revisit  the  scenes 
of  those  tremendous  struggles?  My  reverie  was 
rudely  interrupted. 

'  Run  along,  Wroxie,  dear,  it's  past  bedtime ! ' 
a  maternal  voice  from  the  opposite  chair  suddenly 
expostulated. 

'  But,  mother,  I  must  do  my  Scripture-lesson,  and 
I've  nearly  finished  ! ' 

•37 


238  Spoil ! 

'  What  have  you  to  do,  Wroxie  ? '  I  inquired, 
appointing  myself  arbitrator  on  the  instant. 

'  I  have  to  learn  these  eight  verses  of  the  hundred 
and  nineteenth  Psalm  ! ' 

'  Well,  read  them  aloud  to  us,  and  then  run  off 
to  bed  ! '  I  commanded. 

She  read.  I  am  afraid  I  had  no  ears  for  any  of 
the  later  verses.  For  among  the  very  first  words 
that  she  read  were  these  :  '  /  rejoice  at  Thy  Word 
as  one  that  findeth  great  spoil.'  I  had  read  those 
familiar  words  hundreds  of  times,  but  it  was  like 
passing  a  closed  door.  But  to-night  my  memories 
of  the  great  historic  sieges  supplied  me  with  the  key. 
'  As  one  that  findeth  great  spoil '  .  .  .  '  findeth 
great  spoil '  .  .  .  '  great  spoil.'  That  one  word 
'  spoil '  supplied  me  with  the  magic  key.  I  applied 
it ;  the  door  flew  open ;  and  I  saw  that  in  the  text 
which  I  had  never  seen  before.  The  lesson  came  to 
an  end  ;  the  girlish  tones  subsided  ;  the  reader  kissed 
me  good-night,  and  scampered  off  to  bed,  her  mother 
leaving  the  room  in  her  company ;  and  I  was  left 
once  more  to  my  own  imaginings. 

But  my  fancy  flew  in  quite  a  fresh  direction. 
The  text  had  done  for  my  imprisoned  mind  what 
Noah  did  for  the  imprisoned  dove.  It  had  opened 
a  window  of  escape,  and  I  was  at  liberty  to  go  where 
I  had  never  been  before.  '  Spoil  I ' — at  the  sound  of 
that  magic  word  the  doors  of  truth  swung  open  as 


Spoil !  239 

the  great  door  of  the  robbers'  dungeon  in  The  Forty 
Thieves  yielded  to  the  sound  of  '  Open,  Sesame  ! ' 
A  landscape  may  be  mirrored  in  a  dewdrop ; 
and  here,  in  this  arresting  phrase,  I  suddenly  dis- 
covered all  the  picturesque  colour  and  stirring 
movement  of  a  great  siege.  I  saw  the  bastions  and 
the  drawbridges ;  the  fortified  walls  and  the  frowning 
ramparts  ;  the  lofty  parapets  and  the  stately  towers. 
I  watched  the  fierce  assault  of  the  besiegers  and  the 
tumultuous  sally  of  the  garrison.  I  heard  the  clash 
and  din  of  strife.  I  marked  the  long,  grim  struggle 
against  impending  starvation.  And  then,  at  last, 
I  saw  the  white  flag  flown.  The  proud  city  has 
fallen ;  the  garrison  has  surrendered ;  the  gates  are 
thrown  open  to  the  investing  forces ;  and  the  con- 
queror rides  triumphantly  in  to  seize  his  splendid 
prize  !  His  followers  fall  eagerly  upon  their  booty, 
and  grasp  with  greedy  hands  at  every  glint  of 
treasure  that  presents  itself  to  their  rapacious 
eyes.  Spoil ;  spoil ;  SPOIL  !  '  I  rejoice  at  Thy 
Word  as  one  that  findeth  great  spoil  f ' 


Now  the  most  notable  point  about  this  metaphor 
is  that  the  city  only  yields  up  its  treasure  after  long 
resistance.  The  besieger  does  not  find  the  city 
waiting  with  open  gates  to  welcome  him.  It  slams 


240  Spoil  I 

those  gates  in  his  face ;  bars,  bolts,  and  barricades 
them  ;  and  settles  down  to  keep  him  at  bay  as  long 
as  possible.  The  stubbornness  of  its  brave  resistance 
lends  an  added  sweetness  to  the  final  triumph  of  its 
conqueror ;  but,  whilst  it  lasts,  that  resistance  is 
very  baffling  and  vexatious.  All  the  best  things  in 
life  follow  the  same  strange  law.  See  how  the  soil 
resists  the  farmer  !  It  stiffens  itself  against  his 
approach,  so  that  only  in  the  sweat  of  his  brow 
can  he  plough  and  harrow  it.  It  garrisons  itself  with 
swarms  of  insect  pests,  so  that  his  attempts  to 
subjugate  it  shall  be  rendered  as  ineffective  and 
unfruitful  as  possible.  It  extends  eager  hospitality 
to  every  noxious  seed  that  falls  upon  its  surface. 
It  encourages  all  the  farmer's  enemies,  and  fights 
against  all  his  allies.  Labour  makes  the  harvest 
sweeter,  it  is  true  ;  but  whilst  it  is  in  progress  it  is 
none  the  less  exhausting.  It  is  only  by  breaking  down 
the  obstinate  resistance  of  the  unwilling  soil  that 
the  farmer  achieves  the  golden  triumph  of  harvest- 
time.  The  miner  passes  through  the  same  trying 
experience.  The  earth  has  nothing  to  gam  by 
holding  her  gold  and  her  diamonds,  her  copper  and 
her  coal,  in  such  a  tight  clutch.  Yet  she  makes  the 
work  of  the  miner  a  desperate  and  dangerous 
business.  He  takes  his  life  in  his  hand  as  he  descends 
the  shaft.  The  peril  and  the  toil  add  a  greater 
value  to  the  booty,  I  confess ;  but  the  work  of  the 


Spoil !  241 

dark  mine  is  none  the  less  trying  on  that  account. 
He  who  would  grasp  the  treasures  that  lie  buried  in 
the  bowels  of  the  earth  must  first  break  down  the  most 
determined  and  dogged  resistance.  And  the  treasures 
of  the  mind  also  follow  this  curious  law.  There  is 
no  royal  road  to  learning.  Knowledge  resists  the 
intruder.  It  presents  an  exterior  that  is  altogether 
revolting,  and  only  the  brave  persist  in  the  attack. 
The  text-books  of  the  schools  are  rarely  set  to  music ; 
they  do  not  tingle  with  romance.  They  look  as 
dry  as  dust,  and  they  are  often  even  more  arid  than 
they  look.  I  remember  that,  in  my  college  days, 
the  student  who  sat  next  to  me  on  the  old  familiar 
benches  suddenly  died.  He  was  brilliant ;  I  was 
not.  And  when  I  heard  that  he  had  gone,  the  first 
thought  that  occurred  to  me  was  a  peculiar  one. 
Had  all  his  knowledge  perished  with  him  ?  I  asked 
myself.  I  thought  of  the  problems  that  he  had 
mastered,  but  with  which  I  was  still  grappling. 
Could  he  not  have  bequeathed  to  me  the  fruits  of 
his  patient  and  hard-won  victories  ?  No  ;  it  could 
not  be.  The  city  must  be  patiently  besieged  and 
gallantly  stormed  before  it  will  surrender.  The 
coveted  diploma  may  be  all  the  sweeter  afterwards 
as  a  result  of  so  long  and  persistent  a  struggle  ;  but 
that  fact  does  not  at  the  time  relieve  the  tedium  or 
lessen  the  intolerable  drudgery.  Knowledge  seems 
so  good  and  so  desirable  a  thing  ;  yet  it  resists  the 

Q 


242  Spoil ! 

aspiring  student  with  such  pitiless  and  unsympathetic 
pertinacity. 

Even  love  behaves  in  the  same  way.  The  lady 
keeps  her  lover  at  arm's  length.  She  would  rather  die 
than  not  be  his,  but  she  must  guard  her  modesty 
at  all  hazards.  She  must  not  make  herself  too  cheap. 
She  assumes  a  frigidity  that  is  in  hopeless  conflict 
with  the  warmth  of  her  real  sentiments.  Her 
apparent  indifference  and  repeated  rebuffs  nearly 
drive  her  poor  wooer  to  distraction.  Her  kisses  are 
all  the  sweeter  later  on  when  she  is  delightfully  and 
avowedly  his  own ;  but  whilst  the  siege  of  her 
affections  lasts  the  torment  almost  wrecks  his 
reason.  It  is  really  no  hypocrisy  on  her  part.  It 
is  the  recognition  of  a  true  instinct.  All  the  best 
things  resist  us,  and  their  resistance  has  to  be 
overcome.  And  the  psalmist  declares  that  even  the 
divine  Word  treated  him  in  the  selfsame  way.  It 
did  not  entice,  allure,  fascinate  ;  that  is  usually  the 
policy  of  evil  things.  No ;  it  repelled,  resisted,  dared 
him  !  And  it  was  not  until  he  had  conquered  that 
hostility  that  he  entered  into  his  triumph.  It  was 
in  the  carcase  of  the  fierce  lion  he  had  previously 
destroyed  that  Samson  found  the  honey  that  was 
so  sweet  to  his  taste.  We  generally  find  our  spoil 
in  the  cities  that  slammed  their  great  gates  in  our 
faces. 


Spoil !  243 

II 

But  the  city  capitulates  for  all  that.  It  may  hold 
out  stubbornly,  and  for  long,  but  it  always  yields 
at  the  last.  It  was  so  ordained.  The  soil  was 
meant  to  resist  the  farmer ;  but  it  was  also  meant 
to  yield  to  the  farmer  at  length,  and  to  furnish  him 
with  his  proud  and  delightful  prize.  The  minerals 
are  hidden  so  cleverly,  and  buried  so  deeply,  not 
that  they  may  successfully  elude  the  vigilance  and 
skill  of  the  heroic  miner,  but  in  order  that  he  may 
justly  prize  the  precious  metals  when  they  fall  at 
last  into  his  hands.  The  student's  tedious  struggle 
after  knowledge  is  made  so  painful  a  process,  not 
to  deter  or  defeat  him,  but  so  that,  side  by  side  with 
the  acquisition  of  learning,  he  may  develop  those 
faculties  of  brain  and  intellect  which  can  alone 
qualify  him  to  wield  with  wisdom  the  erudition  that 
he  is  now  so  laboriously  amassing.  The  lady  treats 
her  poor  lover  with  such  seeming  disdain,  not  by 
any  means  to  dishearten  him,  but  that  she  may 
make  quite  sure  that  his  ardour  is  no  mere  passing 
whim,  but  a  deep  and  enduring  attachment.  In  each 
case  capitulation  is  agreed  upon  if  only  the  besieger 
is  sufficiently  gallant  and  persistent.  The  best 
things,  and  even  the  holiest  things,  '  hold  us  off 
that  they  may  draw  us  on ' — to  use  Tennyson's 
expressive  phrase. 


244  Spoil ! 

To  cite  a  single  example,  what  a  wonder-story 
is  that  of  the  Syro-Phoenician  woman  !  The  Master 
conceals  Himself  from  her  ;  treats  her  anguish  with 
apparent  indifference ;  preserves  a  frigid  silence  in 
face  of  her  passionate  entreaty ;  and  offers  exas- 
perating rebuffs  in  reply  to  her  desperate  arguments  ! 
But  did  He  design  to  destroy  her  faith?  Let  us 
see  !  Like  a  gallant  besieger,  she  sat  down  before  the 
city  with  indomitable  courage  and  patience.  Beaten 
back  at  one  gate,  she  instantly  stormed  another. 
Resisted  at  one  redoubt,  she  mustered  all  her 
forces  in  the  effort  to  reduce  a  second.  And  at 
last  '  Jesus  answered  and  said  unto  her,  O  woman, 
great  is  thy  faith ;  be  it  unto  thee  even  as  thou 
wilt ! '  The  capitulation  was  a  predetermined 
policy ;  but  the  courage  and  pertinacity  of  the 
besieger  must  be  tested  to  the  utmost  before  the 
gates  can  be  finally  thrown  open. 


Ill 


And  then  the  victors  fly  upon  the  spoil !  The 
repelling  Word  yields,  and  is  found  to  contain  wealth 
beyond  the  dreams  of  avarice.  '  I  rejoice  at  Thy 
Word  as  one  that  findeth  great  spoil.'  Spoil ! 
We  have  all  felt  the  thrill  of  those  tremendous  pages 
in  which  Gibbon  describes  the  sack  of  Rome  by  the 
all-victorious  Goths.  We  seem  to  have  witnessed 


Spoil !  245 

with  our  own  eyes  the  glittering  wealth  of  the  queenly 
city  poured  at  the  feet  of  the  rapacious  conqueror. 
Or,  in  Prescott's  stately  stories,  we  have  watched  the 
fabulous  hoards  of  Montezuma,  and  the  heaped-up 
gold  of  Atahuallpa,  piled  at  the  feet  of  Cortes  and 
Pizarro.  Or  if,  forsaking  the  shining  spoils  of  the 
Goths  in  Europe  and  the  gleaming  argosies  which 
the  Spaniards  brought  from  the  West,  we  turn  to  a 
later  date  and  an  Eastern  clime,  we  instinctively 
recall  the  glowing  periods  of  Macaulay  in  his  story 
of  the  conquests  of  Clive.  After  his  amazing  victory 
at  Plassey,  '  the  treasury  of  Bengal  was  thrown 
open  to  him.  There  were  piled  up,  after  the  usage 
of  Indian  princes,  immense  masses  of  coin.  Clive 
walked  between  heaps  of  gold  and  silver,  crowned 
with  rubies  and  diamonds,  and  was  at  liberty  to 
help  himself.  He  accepted  between  two  and  three 
hundred  thousand  pounds.'  He  was  afterwards 
accused  of  greed.  He  replied  by  describing  the 
countless  wealth  by  which  he  was  that  day  sur- 
rounded. Vaults  piled  with  gold  and  with  jewels 
were  at  his  mercy.  '  To  this  day,'  he  exclaimed, 
'  I  stand  astonished  at  my  own  moderation ! ' 

Here,  then,  is  the  magic  key  that  opens  to  us  the 
secret  in  the  psalmist's  mind.  '  I  rejoice  at  Thy 
Word  as  one  that  findeth  great  spoil.'  The  besiegers 
pour  into  the  city.  Every  house  is  ransacked.  In 
the  most  unlikely  places  the  citizens  have  concealed 


246  Spoil ! 

their  treasures,  and  in  the  most  unlikely  places, 
therefore,  the  invaders  come  upon  their  spoils. 
Out  from  queer  old  drawers  and  cupboards,  out 
of  strange  old  cracks  and  crannies,  the  precious 
hoard  is  torn.  As  the  besiegers  rush  from  house  to 
house  you  hear  the  shout  and  the  laughter  with 
which  another  and  yet  another  find  is  greeted. 
So  was  it  with  his  conquest  of  the  Word,  the  psalmist 
tells  us.  At  first  it  resisted  and  repelled  him.  But 
afterwards  its  gates  were  opened  to  his  challenge. 
He  entered  the  city  and  began  his  search  for  spoil. 
And,  lo,  from  out  of  every  promise  and  precept, 
out  of  every  innocent-looking  clause  or  insignificant 
phrase,  the  treasures  of  truth  came  pouring,  until 
he  found  himself  possessed  at  length  of  a  wealth 
compared  with  which  the  pomp  of  princes  is  the 
badge  of  beggary. 


V 

A  PHILOSOPHY  OF  FANCY-WORK 

'  "  WHAT  course  of  lectures  are  you  attending  now, 
ma'am?  "  said  Martin  Chuzzlewit's  friend,  turning 
again  to  Mrs.  Jefferson  Brick. 

"  The  Philosophy  of  the  Soul,  on  Wednesdays," 
replied  Mrs.  Brick. 

'  "  And  on  Mondays  ?  " 

'  "  The  Philosophy  of  Crime." 

'  "  On  Fridays  ?  " 

'  "  The  Philosophy  of  Vegetables." 

'  "  You  have  forgotten  Thursdays  ;  the  Philosophy 
of  Government,  my  dear,"  observed  a  third  lady. 

'  "  No,"  said  Mrs.  Brick,  "  that's  Tuesdays." 

'  "  So  it  is  !  "  cried  the  lady.  "  The  Philosophy 
of  Matter  on  Thursdays,  of  course." 

' "  You  see,  Mr.  Chuzzlewit,  our  ladies  are  fully 
employed,"  observed  his  friend.' 

They  were  indeed  ;  but  for  the  life  of  me  I  cannot 
understand  why,  amidst  so  many  philosophies,  the 
Philosophy  of  Fancy-work  was  so  cruelly  ignored. 
I  should  have  thought  it  quite  as  suitable  and 
profitable  a  study  for  Mrs.  Jefferson  Brick  and  her 

847 


248  A  Philosophy  of  Fancy-work 

lady  friends  as  some  of  the  subjects  to  which  they 
paid  their  attention. 

'  Whatever  are  you  making  now,  dear  ?  '  asked 
a  devoted  husband  of  his  spouse  the  other 
evening. 

'  Why,  an  antimacassar,  George,  to  be  sure ; 
can't  you  see  ?  ' 

'  And  what  on  earth  is  the  good  of  an  antimacassar, 
I  should  like  to  know  ?  ' 

'  Stupid  imn  ! ' 

Stupid  man,  indeed  !  But  there  it  is  !  And  for 
the  crass  stupidity  of  their  husbands,  Mrs.  Jefferson 
Brick  and  her  philosophical  friends  have  only 
themselves  to  blame.  If  they  had  included  the 
Philosophy  of  Fancy-work  in  their  syllabus  of 
lectures,  they  might  have  acquired  such  a  grasp  of 
a  great  and  vital  subject  that  they  would  have  been 
able  to  convince  then*  husbands  that  there  is  nothing 
in  the  house  quite  so  useful  as  an  antimacassar. 
The  pots  and  the  pans,  the  chairs  and  the  tables, 
are  nowhere  in  comparison.  The  antimacassar  is 
the  one  indispensable  article  in  the  establishment. 
Let  no  man  attempt  to  deride  or  belittle  it. 

As  it  is,  however,  Mrs.  Jefferson  Brick  and  her 
friends  have  never  really  studied  the  Philosophy  of 
Fancy-work,  and  have  never  therefore  been  in  a 
position  to  enlighten  the  darkened  minds  of  their 
benighted  husbands.  As  an  inevitable  consequence, 


A  Philosophy  of  Fancy-work       •    249 

those  husbands  continue  to  regard  the  busy 
needles  as  an  amiable  frailty  pertaining  to  the  sex 
of  their  better  halves.  In  writing  thus,  I  am  thinking 
of  the  better-tempered  husbands.  Husbands  of  the 
other  variety  regard  fancy-work  as  an  unmitigated 
nuisance.  Mark  Rutherford  has  familiarized  us 
with  a  husband  who  so  regarded  his  wife's  delicate 
traceries  and  ornamentations.  I  refer,  of  course, 
to  Catherine  Furze.  We  all  remember  Mrs.  Furze's 
parlour  at  Eastthorpe.  '  There  was  a  sofa  in  the 
room,  but  it  was  horse-hair  with  high  ends  both 
alike,  not  comfortable,  which  were  covered  with 
curious  complications  called  antimacassars,  that 
slipped  off  directly  they  were  touched,  so  that  any- 
body who  leaned  upon  them  was  engaged  continually 
in  warfare  with  them,  picking  them  up  from  the 
floor  or  spreading  them  out  again.  There  was  also 
an  easy  chair,  but  it  was  not  easy,  for  it  matched 
the  sofa  in  horse-hair,  and  was  so  ingeniously  con- 
trived that,  directly  a  person  placed  himself  in  it, 
it  gently  shot  him  forwards.  Furthermore,  it  had 
special  antimacassars,  which  were  a  work  of  art, 
and  Mrs.  Furze  had  warned  Mr.  Furze  off  them. 
"  He  would  ruin  them,"  she  said,  "  if  he  put  his 
head  upon  them."  So  a  Windsor  chair  with  a 
high  back  was  always  carried  by  Mr.  Furze  into 
the  parlour  after  dinner,  together  with  a  common 
kitchen  chair,  and  on  these  he  took  his  Sunday  nap.' 


250  A  Philosophy  ol  Fancy-work 

The  reader  is  made  to  feel  that,  on  these  interesting 
occasions,  Mr.  Furze  wished  his  wife  and  her  anti- 
macassars at  the  bottom  of  the  deep  blue  sea ; 
and  one  rather  admires  his  self-restraint  in  not 
explicitly  saying  so.  Mr.  Furze  is  the  natural 
representative  of  all  those  husbands  who  see  no 
rhyme  or  reason  in  fancy-work.  If  only  Mrs. 
Jefferson  Brick  had  included  that  phase  of 
philosophy  on  her  programme,  and  had  passed 
on  the  illumination  to  some  member  of  the 
sterner  sex  1  But  let  us  indulge  in  no  futile 
regrets. 

That  there  is  a  Philosophy  of  Fancy-work  goes 
without  saying.  To  begin  with,  think  of  the  relief 
to  the  overstrung  nerves  and  the  over-wrought 
emotions,  at  the  close  of  a  trying  day,  in  being  able 
to  sit  down  in  a  cosy  chair,  and,  when  the  eyes  are 
too  tired  for  reading,  to  finger  away  at  the  needles, 
and  get  on  with  the  antimacassar.  Our  grand- 
mothers went  in  for  antimacassars  instead  of 
neurasthenia.  '  It  is  astonishing,'  exclaimed  the 
'  Lady  of  the  Decoration,'  '  how  much  bad  temper 
one  can  knit  into  a  garment ! '  An  earlier  generation 
of  wonderfully  wise  women  made  that  discovery, 
and  worked  all  their  discontents,  and  all  their  evil 
tempers,  and  all  their  quivering  nervousness  into 
antimacassars.  On  the  whole  it  is  cheaper  than 
working  them  into  drugs  and  doctors'  bills,  and 


A  Philosophy  of  Fancy-work  251 

drugs   and  doctors'   bills   are    certainly  no   more 
ornamental. 

In  his  essay  on  Tedium,  Claudius  Clear  deals  with 
that  particular  form  of  tedium  that  arises  from  leaden 
hours.  And  he  thinks  that  in  this  respect  women 
have  an  immense  advantage  over  men.  Men  have 
to  wait  for  things,  and  they  find  the  experience 
intolerable.  But  a  woman  turns  to  her  fancy-work, 
and  is  amused  at  her  husband's  uncontrollable 
impatience.  The  antimacassar,  he  believes,  gives 
just  enough  occupation  to  the  fingers  to  make  abso- 
lute tedium  impossible.  The  war  has  led  to  a 
remarkable  revival  of  knitting  and  of  fancy-work. 
My  present  theme  was  suggested  to  me  on  Saturday. 
I  took  my  wife  for  a  little  excursion  ;  she  took  her 
knitting,  and  we  saw  ladies  working  everywhere. 
Two  were  busy  in  the  tram ;  we  came  upon  one 
sitting  in  a  secluded  spot  in  the  bush,  her  deft 
needles  chasing  each  other  merrily.  And  on  the 
river  steamer  eleven  ladies  out  of  fifteen  had  their 
fancy-work  with  them.  I  could  not  help  thinking 
that,  in  not  a  few  of  these  cases,  the  workers  must 
derive  as  much  comfort  from  the  occupation  as  the 
wearers  will  eventually  derive  from  the  garments. 
Many  a  woman  has  woven  all  her  worries  into  her 
fancy-work,  and  has  felt  the  greatest  relief  in  con- 
sequence. One  such  worker  has  borne  witness  to 
the  consolation  afforded  her  by  her  needles. 


252  A  Philosophy  of  Fancy-work 

Silent  is  the  house.    I  sit 
In  the  firelight  and  knit. 
At  my  ball  of  soft  grey  wool 
Two  grey  kittens  gently  pull — 
Pulling  back  my  thoughts  as  well, 
From  that  distant,  red-rimmed  hell, 
And  hot  tears  the  stitches  blur 
As  I  knit  a  comforter. 

'  Comforter  '  they  call  it — yes, 
Such  it  is  for  my  distress, 
For  it  gives  my  restless  hands 
Blessed  work.    God  understands 
How  we  women  yearn  to  be 
Doing  something  ceaselessly. 
Anything  but  just  to  wait 
Idly  for  a  clicking  gate ! 

We  must,  however,  be  perfectly  honest ;  and  to 
deal  honestly  with  our  subject  we  must  not  ignore 
the  classical  example,  even  though  that  example  may 
not  prove  particularly  attractive.  The  classical 
example  is,  of  course,  Madame  Defarge.  Madame 
Defarge  was  the  wife  of  Jacques  Defarge,  who  kept 
the  famous  wine-shop  in  A  Tale  of  Two  Cities. 
When  first  we  are  introduced  to  the  wine-shop- 
keeper and  his  wife,  three  customers  are  entering  the 
shop.  They  pull  off  their  hats  to  Madame  Defarge. 
'  She  acknowledged  their  homage  by  bending  her 
head,  and  giving  them  a  quick  look.  Then  she 
glanced  in  a  casual  manner  round  the  wine-shop, 


A  Philosophy  of  Fancy-work  253 

took  up  her  knitting  with  great  apparent  calmness 
and  repose  of  spirit,  and  became  absorbed  in  it.' 
Everybody  who  is  familiar  with  the  story  knows 
that  here  we  have  the  stroke  of  the  artist.  Madame 
Defarge,  be  it  noted,  took  up  her  knitting  with 
apparent  calmness  and  repose  of  spirit,  and  became 
absorbed  in  it.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  Madame 
Defarge  was  absorbed,  not  in  the  knitting,  but  in  the 
conversation ;  and  all  that  she  heard  with  her  ears 
was  knitted  into  the  garment  in  her  hands.  The 
knitting  was  a  tell-tale  register. 

'  "  Are  you  sure,"  asked  one  of  the  wine-shop- 
keeper's accomplices  one  day,  "  are  you  sure  that  no 
embarrassment  can  arise  from  our  manner  of  keeping 
the  register  ?  Without  doubt  it  is  safe,  for  no  one 
beyond  ourselves  can  decipher  it ;  but  shall  we 
always  be  able  to  decipher  it — or,  I  ought  to  say, 
will  she  ?  " 

' "  Man,"  returned  Defarge,  drawing  himself  up, 
"  if  Madame,  my  wife,  undertook  to  keep  the  register 
in  her  memory  alone,  she  would  not  lose  a  word  of 
it — not  a  syllable  of  it.  Knitted,  in  her  own  stitches, 
and  her  own  symbols,  it  will  always  be  as  plain  to 
her  as  the  sun.  Confide  in  Madame  Defarge.  It 
would  be  easier  for  the  weakest  poltroon  that  lives 
to  erase  himself  from  existence  than  to  erase  one 
letter  of  his  name  or  crimes  from  the  knitted  register 
of  Madame  Defarge."  ' 


254  A  Philosophy  of  Fancy-work 

Oh  those  tell-tale  needles  !  Up  and  down,  to  and 
fro,  in  and  out  they  flashed  and  darted,  Madame 
seeming  all  the  time  so  preoccupied  and  inattentive ! 
Yet  into  those  innocent  stitches  there  went  the 
guilty  secrets ;  and  when  the  secrets  were  revealed 
the  lives  and  deaths  of  men  hung  in  the  balance  ! 
Here,  then,  is  a  philosophy  of  fancy-work  that  will 
carry  us  a  very  long  way.  The  stitches  are  always 
a  matter  of  life  and  of  death,  however  innocent  or 
trivial  they  may  seem.  Whether  I  do  a  row  of 
stitches,  or  drive  a  row  of  nails,  or  write  a  row  of 
words,  I  am  a  little  older  when  I  fasten  the  last 
stitch,  or  drive  the  last  nail,  or  write  the  last 
word,  than  I  was  when  I  began.  And  what  does 
that  mean?  It  means  that  I  have  deliberately 
taken  a  fragment  of  my  life  and  have  woven  it 
into  my  work  That  is  the  terrific  sanctity  of  the 
commonest  toil.  It  is  instinct  with  life.  '  Greater 
love  hath  no  man  than  this,  that  a  man  lay  down 
his  life  for  his  friend/  and  whenever  I  drive  a  nail, 
or  write  a  syllable,  or  weave  a  stitch  for  another,  I 
have  laid  down  just  so  much  of  my  life  for  his  sake. 

But  when  we  begin  to  exploit  the  possibilities  of 
a  Philosophy  of  Fancy-work,  we  shall  find  our  feet 
wandering  into  some  very  green  pastures  and  beside 
some  very  still  waters.  Fancy-work  will  lead  us  to 
think  about  friendship,  than  which  few  themes  are 
more  attractive.  For  the  loveliest  idyll  of  friendship 


A  Philosophy  of  Fancy-work  255 

is  told  in  the  phraseology  of  fancy-work.  '  And  it 
came  to  pass  that  the  soul  of  Jonathan  was  knit 
to  the  soul  of  David.  Knitting,  knitting,  knitting  ; 
up  and  down,  to  and  fro,  in  and  out,  see  the  needles 
flash  and  dart !  Every  moment  that  I  spend  with 
my  friend  is  a  weaving  of  his  life  into  mine,  and  of 
my  life  into  his ;  and  pity  me,  men  and  angels,  if  I 
entangle  the  strands  of  my  life  with  a  fabric  that 
mars  the  pattern  of  my  own  !  And  pity  me  still 
more  if  the  inferior  texture  of  my  life  impairs  the 
perfection  and  beauty  of  my  friend's !  Into  the  sacred 
domain  of  our  sweetest  friendships,  therefore,  has 
this  unpromising  matter  of  fancy-work  conveyed  us. 
But  it  must  take  us  higher  still.  For  '  there  is  a 
Friend  that  sticketh  closer  than  a  brother,'  and  the 
web  of  my  life  will  look  strangely  incomplete  at  the 
last  unless  the  fabric  of  my  soul  be  found  knit 
and  interwoven  with  the  fair  and  radiant  colours 
of  His. 


VI 

PAIR  OF  BOOTS 

THERE  seems  to  be  very  little  in  a  pair  of  boots — 
except,  perhaps,  a  pair  of  feet — until  a  great  crisis 
arises ;  and  in  a  great  crisis  all  things  assume  new 
values.  When  the  war  broke  out,  and  empires 
found  themselves  face  to  face  with  destiny,  the 
nations  asked  themselves  anxiously  how  they  were 
off  for  boots.  When  millions  of  men  began  to 
march,  boots  seemed  to  be  the  only  thing  that 
mattered.  The  manhood  of  the  world  rose  in  its 
wrath,  reached  for  its  boots,  buckled  on  its  sword, 
and  set  out  for  the  front.  And  at  the  front,  if 
Mr.  Kipling  is  to  be  believed,  it  is  all  a  matter  of 
boots. 


Don't — don't — don't — don't — look  at  what's  in  front  of 

you; 

Boots — boots — boots — boots — moving  up  and  down  again  ; 
Men — men — men — men — men  go  mad  with  watching  'em, 
An'  there's  no  discharge  in  the  war. 
856 


A  Pair  of  Boots  257 

Try — try — try — try — to  think  o'  something  different — 
Oh — my — God — keep — me  from  going  lunatic  1 
Boots — boots — boots — boots — moving  up  and  down  again 
An'  there's  no  discharge  in  the  war. 

We — can — stick — out — 'unger,  thirst,  an'  weariness, 
But — not — not — not — not  the  chronic  sight  of  'em — 
Boots — boots — boots — boots — moving  up  and  down  again  ! 
An'  there's  no  discharge  in  the  war. 

'Tain't — so — bad — by — day  because  o'  company, 

But — night — brings — long — strings      o'      forty     thousand 

million 

Boots — boots — boots — boots — moving  up  and  down  again  1 
An'  there's  no  discharge  in  the  war. 

A  soldier  sees  enough  pairs  of  boots  in  a  ten-mile 
march  to  last  him  half  a  lifetime. 

Yet,  after  all,  are  not  these  the  most  amiable 
things  beneath  the  stars,  the  things  that  we  treat 
with  derision  and  contempt  in  days  of  calm,  but 
for  which  we  grope  with  feverish  anxiety  when  the 
storm  breaks  upon  us?  They  go  on,  year  after 
year,  bearing  the  obloquy  of  our  toothless  little 
jests ;  they  go  on,  year  after  year,  serving  us 
none  the  less  faithfully  because  we  deem  them 
almost  too  mundane  for  mention ;  and  then,  when 
they  suddenly  turn  out  to  be  a  matter  of  life  and 
death  to  us,  they  serve  us  still,  with  never  a  word 
of  reproach  for  our  past  ingratitude  If  the  world 

R 


258  A  Pair  of  Boots 

has  a  spark  of  chivalry  left  in  it,  it  will  offer  a  most 
abject  apology  to  its  boots. 

It  would  do  a  man  a  world  of  good,  before  putting 
on  his  boots,  to  have  a  good  look  at  them.  Let  him 
set  them  in  the  middle  of  the  hearthrug,  the  shining 
toes  turned  carefully  towards  him,  and  then  let 
him  lean  forward  in  his  arm-chair,  elbows  on  knees 
and  head  on  hands,  and  let  him  fasten  on  those  boots 
of  his  a  contrite  and  respectful  gaze.  And  looking 
at  his  boots  thus  attentively  and  carefully  he  will 
see  what  he  has  never  seen  before.  He  will  see 
that  a  pair  of  boots  is  one  of  the  master  achieve- 
ments of  civilization.  A  pair  of  boots  is  one  of 
the  wonders  of  the  world,  a  most  cunning  and 
ingenious  contrivance.  Dan  Crawford,  in  Thinking 
Black,  tells  us  that  nothing  about  Livingstone's 
equipment  impressed  the  African  mind  so  pro- 
foundly as  the  boots  he  wore.  '  Even  to  this 
remote  day/  Mr.  Crawford  says,  '  all  around  Lake 
Mweru  they  sing  a  "  Livingstone  "  song  to 
commemorate  that  great  "  path-borer,"  the  good 
Doctor  being  such  a  federal  head  of  his  race 
that  he  is  known  far  and  near  as  Ingeresa,  or 
"  The  Englishman."  And  this  is  ^  memorial 
song: 

Ingeresa,  who  slept  on  the  waves, 
Welcome  him,  for  he  hath  no  toes  ! 
Welcome  him,  for  he  hath  no  toes  ! 


A  Pair  of  Boots  259 

That  is  to  say,  revelling  in  paradox  as  the  negro 
does,  he  seized  on  the  facetious  fact  that  this  wan- 
dering Livingstone,  albeit  he  travelled  so  far,  had 
no  toes — that  is  to  say,  had  boots,  if  you  please  ! ' 
Later  on,  Mr.  Crawford  remarks  again  that  the 
barefooted  native  never  ceases  to  wonder  at  the 
white  man's  boots.  To  him  they  are  a  marvel  and 
a  portent,  for,  instead  of  thinking  of  the  boot 
as  merely  covering  the  foot  that  wears  it,  his  idea 
is  that  those  few  inches  of  shoe  carpet  the  whole 
forest  with  leather.  He  puts  on  his  boots,  and,  by 
doing  so,  he  spreads  a  gigantic  runner  of  linoleum 
across  the  whole  continent  of  Africa.  Here  is  a 
philosophical  way  of  looking  at  a  pah*  of  boots  ! 
It  has  made  my  own  boots  look  differently  ever 
since  I  read  it.  Why,  these  boots  on  the  hearthrug, 
looking  so  reproachfully  up  at  me,  are  millions  of 
times  bigger  than  they  seem  !  They  look  to  my 
poor  distorted  vision  like  a  few  inches  of  leather ; 
but  as  a  matter  of  fact  they  represent  hundreds  of 
miles  of  leathern  matting.  They  make  a  runner 
paving  the  path  from  my  quiet  study  to  the  front 
doors  of  all  my  people's  homes  ;  they  render  com- 
fortable and  attractive  all  the  highways  and  byways 
along  which  duty  calls  me.  Looked  at  through  a 
pair  of  African  eyes,  these  British  boots  assume 
marvellous  proportions.  They  are  touched  by 
magic  and  are  wondrously  transformed.  From  being 


260  A  Pair  of  Boots 

contemptible,  they  now  appear  positively  continental. 
I  am  surprised  that  the  subject  has  never  appealed 
to  me  before. 

Now  this  African  way  of  looking  at  a  pair  of  boots 
promises  us  a  key  to  a  phrase  in  the  New  Testament 
that  has  always  seemed  to  me  like  a  locked  casket. 
John  Bunyan  tells  us  that  when  the  sisters  of  the 
Palace  Beautiful  led  Christian  to  the  armoury  he 
saw  such  a  bewildering  abundance  of  boots  as  surely 
no  other  man  ever  beheld  before  or  since  !  They 
were  shoes  that  would  never  wear  out ;  and  there 
were  enough  of  them,  he  says,  to  harness  out  as 
many  men  for  the  service  of  their  Lord  as  there  be 
stars  in  the  heaven  for  multitude.  Bunyan' s  pro- 
digious stock  of  shoes  is,  of  course,  an  allusion  to 
Paul's  exhortation  to  the  Ephesian  Christians  con- 
cerning the  armour  with  which  he  would  have  them 
to  be  clad.  '  Take  unto  you  the  whole  armour  of 
God  .  .  .  and  your  feet  shod  with  the  preparation 
of  the  gospel  of  peace.' 

Whenever  we  get  into  difficulties  concerning  this 
heavenly  panoply,  we  turn  to  good  old  William 
Gurnall.  Master  Gurnall  beat  out  these  six  verses 
of  Paul's  into  a  ponderous  work  of  fourteen  hundred 
pages,  bound  in  two  massive  volumes.  One  hundred 
and  fifty  of  these  pages  deal  with  the  footgear 
recommended  by  the  apostle ;  and  Master  Gurnall 
gives  us,  among  other  treasures,  '  six  directions  for 


A  Pair  ol  Boots  261 

the  helping  on  of  this  spiritual  shoe.'    But  we  must 
not  be  betrayed  into  a  digression  on  the  matter  of 
shoe-horns  and  kindred  contrivances.    Shoemaker, 
stick  to  thy  last !    Let  us  keep  to  this  matter  of 
boots.     Can   good   Master   Gurnall,   with   all   his 
hundred  and  fifty  closely  printed  pages  on  the  sub- 
ject, help  us  to  understand  what  Paul  and  Bunyan 
meant  ?     What  is  it  to  have  your  feet  shod  with  the 
preparation  of  the  gospel  of  peace  ?    What  are  the 
shoes  that  never  wear  out  ?     Now  the  striking  thing 
is  that  Master  Gurnall  looks  at  the  matter  very  much 
as  the  Africans  do.     He  turns  upon  himself  a  perfect 
fusillade  of  questions.    What  is  meant  by  the  gospel  ? 
What  is  meant  by  peace  ?     Why  is  peace  attributed 
to  the  gospel?     What  do  the  feet  here  mentioned 
import  ?     What  grace  is  intended  by  that  '  prepara- 
tion of  the  gospel  of  peace  '  which  is  here  compared 
to  a  shoe  and  fitted  to  these  feet  ?    And  so  on.    And 
in   answering   his   own   questions,    and   especially 
this  last  one,  good  Master  Gurnall  comes  to  the 
conclusion  that  the  spiritual  shoe  which  he  would 
fain  help  us  to  put  on  is  'a  gracious,  heavenly,  and 
excellent  spirit.'     And  his  hundred  and  fifty  crowded 
pages  on  the  matter  of  footwear  give  us  clearly  to 
understand  that  the  man  who  puts  on  this  beautiful 
spirit  will  be  able  to  walk  without  weariness  the 
stoniest  roads,  and  to  climb  without  exhaustion  the 
steepest  hills.     He  shall  tread  upon  the  lion  and 


262  A  Pair  of  Boots 

adder ;  the  young  lion  and  the  dragon  shall  he 
trample  under  feet.  In  slimy  bogs  and  on  slippery 
paths  his  foot  shall  never  slide  ;  and  in  the  day  when 
he  wrestles  with  principalities  and  powers,  and  with 
the  rulers  of  the  darkness  of  this  world,  his  foothold 
shall  be  firm  and  secure.  '  Thy  shoes  shall  be  iron 
and  brass,  and  as  thy  days  so  shall  thy  strength 
be.'  Master  Gurnall's  teaching  is  therefore  perfectly 
plain.  He  looks  at  this  divine  footwear  much  as 
the  Africans  looked  at  Livingstone's  boots.  The 
man  whose  feet  are  shod  with  the  preparation  of 
the  gospel  of  peace  has  carpeted  for  himself  all  the 
rough  roads  that  lie  before  him.  The  man  who  knows 
how  to  wear  this  '  gracious,  heavenly,  and  excellent 
spirit '  has  done  for  himself  what  Sir  Walter  Raleigh 
did  for  Queen  Elizabeth.  He  has  already  protected 
his  feet  against  all  the  miry  places  of  the  path  ahead 
of  him.  If  good  Master  Gurnall's  '  six  directions 
for  the  helping  on  of  this  spiritual  shoe  '  will  really 
assist  us  to  be  thus  securely  shod,  then  his  hundred 
and  fifty  pages  will  yet  prove  more  precious  than 
gold-leaf. 

Bunyan  speaks  of  the  amazing  exhibition  of 
footgear  that  Christian  beheld  in  the  armoury  as 
'  shoes  that  will  not  wear  out.'  I  wish  I  could  be  quite 
sure  that  Christian  was  not  mistaken.  John  Bunyan 
has  so  often  been  my  teacher  and  counsellor  on  all 
the  highest  and  weightiest  matters  that  it  is  painful 


A  Pair  of  Boots  263 

to  have  to  doubt  him  at  any  point.  The  boots  may 
have  looked  as  though  they  would  never  wear  out ; 
but,  as  all  mothers  know,  that  is  a  way  that  boots 
have.  In  the  shoemaker's  hands  they  always  look 
as  though  they  would  stand  the  wear  and  tear  of 
ages  ;  but  put  them  on  a  boy's  feet  and  see  what  they 
will  look  like  in  a  month's  time  !  I  am  really  afraid 
that  Christian  was  deceived  in  this  particular. 
Paul  says  nothing  about  the  everlasting  wear  of 
which  the  shoes  are  capable  ;  and  the  sisters  of  the 
Palace  Beautiful  seem  to  have  said  nothing  about  it. 
I  fancy  Christian  jumped  too  hastily  to  this  con- 
clusion, misled  by  the  excellent  appearance  and 
sturdy  make  of  the  boots  before  him.  My  experience 
is  that  the  shoes  do  wear  out.  The  most '  gracious, 
heavenly,  and  excellent  spirit '  must  be  kept  in 
repair.  I  know  of  no  virtue,  however  attractive, 
and  of  no  grace,  however  beautiful,  that  will  not 
wear  thin  unless  it  is  constantly  attended  to.  My 
good  friend,  Master  Gurnall,  for  all  his  hundred  and 
fifty  pages  does  not  touch  upon  this  point ;  but  I 
venture  to  advise  my  readers  that  they  will  be  wise 
to  accept  Christian's  so  confident  declaration  with  a 
certain  amount  of  caution.  The  statement  that '  these 
shoes  will  not  wear  out '  savours  rather  too  much  of 
the  spirit  of  advertisement ;  and  we  have  learned  from 
painful  experience  that  the  language  of  an  adver- 
tisement is  not  always  to  be  interpreted  literally. 


264  A  Pair  of  Boots 

One  other  thing  these  boots  of  mine  seem  to  say 
to  me  as  they  look  mutely  up  at  me  from  the  centre 
of  the  hearthrug.  Have  they  no  history,  these 
shoes  of  mine  ?  Whence  came  they  ?  And  at  this 
point  we  suddenly  invade  the  realm  of  tragedy. 
The  voice  of  Abel's  blood  cried  to  God  from  the 
ground ;  and  the  voice  of  blood  calls  to  me  from 
my  very  boots.  Was  it  a  seal  cruelly  done  to  death 
upon  a  northern  icefloe,  or  a  kangaroo  shot  down  in 
the  very  flush  of  life  as  it  bounded  through  the 
Australian  bush,  or  a  kid  looking  up  at  its  slaughterer 
with  terrified,  pitiful  eyes  ?  What  was  it  that  gave 
up  the  life  so  dear  to  it  that  I  might  be  softly  and 
comfortably  shod  ?  And  so  every  step  that  I  take 
is  a  step  that  has  been  made  possible  to  me  by  the 
shedding  of  innocent  blood.  All  the  highways  and 
byways  that  I  tread  have  been  sanctified  by  sacrifice 
The  very  boots  on  the  hearthrug  are  whispering 
something  about  redemption.  And  most  certainly 
this  is  true  of  the  shoes  of  which  the  apostle  wrote, 
the  shoes  that  the  pilgrims  saw  at  the  Palace  Beau- 
tiful, the  shoes  that  trudge  their  weary  way  through 
Master  Gurnall's  hundred  and  fifty  packed  pages. 
These  shoes  could  never  have  been  placed  at  our 
disposal  apart  from  the  shedding  of  most  sacred 
blood.  My  feet  may  be  shod  with  the  preparation 
of  the  gospel  of  peace  ;  but,  if  so,  it  is  only  because 
the  sacrifice  unspeakable  has  already  been  made. 


VII 
CHRISTMAS  BELLS 

IT  is  an  infinite  comfort  to  us  ordinary  pulpiteers  to 
know  that  even  an  Archbishop  may  sometimes  have 
a  bad  time !  And,  on  the  occasion  of  which  I 
write,  the  poor  prelate  must  have  had  a  very  bad 
time  indeed.  For — tell  it  not  in  Gath,  publish  it 
not  in  the  streets  of  Askelon  ! — none  of  his  hearers 
knew  what  he  had  been  talking  about !  They  could 
make  neither  head  nor  tail  of  it !  'I  have  not  been 
able  to  find  one  man  yet  who  could  discover  what  it 
was  about,'  wrote  one  of  his  auditors  to  a  friend. 
It  is  certainly  most  humiliating  when  our  congre- 
gations go  home  and  pen  such  letters  for  posterity 
to  chuckle  over.  And  yet  the  ability  of  the  preacher 
at  this  particular  service,  and  the  intelligence  of 
his  hearers,  are  alike  beyond  question.  For  the 
preacher  was  the  famous  Richard  Chenevix  Trench, 
D.D.,  Professor  of  Theology  at  King's  College, 
Dean  of  Westminster,  and  afterwards  Archbishop 
of  Dublin.  The  sermon  was  preached  in  the  classical 
atmosphere  of  Cambridge  University,  principally  to 
students  and  undergraduates.  The  theme  was  the 
Incarnation — '  The  Word  was  made  flesh.'  And  the 

265 


266  Christmas  Bells 

young  fellow  who  wrote  the  plaintive  epistle  from 
which  I  have  quoted  was  Alfred  Ainger,  afterwards 
a  distinguished  litterateur  and  Master  of  the  Temple. 
He  could  make  nothing  of  it.  '  The  sermon,  I  am 
sorry  to  say,  was  universally  disappointing.  I  have 
not  been  able  to  find  one  man  yet  who  could  discover 
what  it  was  about.  It  is  needless  to  say  /  could  not. 
He  chose,  too,  one  of  the  grandest  and  deepest  texts 
in  the  New  Testament.  He  talked  a  great  deal 
about  St.  Augustine,  but  any  more  I  cannot  tell  you.' 

Now  Christmas  will  again  come  knocking  at  our 
doors,  and  many  of  us  will  find  ourselves  preaching  on 
this  selfsame  theme.  And  we  have  a  wholesome 
horror  of  sending  our  hearers  home  in  the  same 
fearful  perplexity.  '  What  on  earth  was  the  minister 
talking  about  ?  '  Ail  the  car-is  and  the  carols,  the 
fun  and  the  frolic,  the  pastimes  and  the  picnics  will 
be  turned  into  dust  and  ashes,  into  gall  and  worm- 
wood, into  vanity  and  vexation  of  spirit  to  the  poor 
preacher  who  suspects  that  his  Christmas  congrega- 
tion returned  home  in  such  a  mood.  His  Christmas 
dinner  will  almost  choke  him.  There  will  be  no 
merry  Christmas  for  him  \ 

But  let  no  minister  be  terrified  or  intimidated  by 
the  Archbishop's  unhappy  experience.  His  '  bad 
time'  may  help  us  to  enjoy  a  good  one.  We  must 
take  his  text,  and  wrestle  with  it  bravely.  It  is  the 
ideal  Christmas  greeting.  There  is  certainly  depth 


Christmas  Bells  267 

and  mystery  ;  but  there  is  humanness  and  tenderness 
as  well. 

'  The  Word  was  made  flesh.'  Words  are  won- 
derful things,  to  say  nothing  of  '  the  Word  ' — what- 
ever that  may  prove  to  be.  This  selfsame  Arch- 
bishop Trench,  whose  sermon  at  Cambridge  proved 
such  a  universal  disappointment,  has  written  a 
marvellous  book  On  the  Study  of  Words.  Here  are 
seven  masterly  chapters  to  show  that  words  are 
fossil  poetry,  and  petrified  history,  and  embalmed 
romance,  and  that  all  the  ages  have  left  the  record 
of  their  tears  and  their  laughter,  of  their  virtues  and 
their  vices,  of  their  passion  and  their  pain,  in  the 
words  that  they  have  coined.  '  When  I  feel  inclined 
to  read  poetry,'  says  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes,  'I 
take  down  my  dictionary  \  The  poetry  of  words  is 
quite  as  beautiful  as  that  of  sentences.  The  author 
may  arrange  the  gems  effectively,  but  their  shape 
and  lustre  have  been  given  by  the  attrition  of  age. 
Bring  me  the  finest  simile  from  the  whole  range  of 
imaginative  writing,  and  I  will  show  you  a  single  word 
which  conveys  a  more  profound,  a  more  accurate, 
and  a  more  elegant  analogy.'  Words,  then,  are 
jewel-cases,  treasure-chests,  strong-rooms ;  they  are 
repositories  hi  which  the  archives  of  the  ages  are 
preserved. 

'  The  Word  was  made  flesh:  We  never  grasp  the 
Word  until  it  is.  Let  me  illustrate  my  meaning. 


268  Christmas  Bells 

Here  is  a  bonny  little  fellow  of  six,  with  sunny  face 
and  a  glorious  shock  of  golden  hair.  His  father 
hands  him  his  first  spelling-book,  with  the  alphabet 
on  the  front  page,  and  little  two-letter  monosyllables 
following.  But  what  can  he  make  of  even  such 
small  words?  He  will  never  learn  the  A.B.C.  in 
that  way.  But  give  him  a  teacher.  Make  the  word 
flesh,  and  he  will  soon  have  it  all  off  by  heart ! 

Five  years  pass  away.  The  lad  is  in  the  full 
swing  of  his  school-days  now.  But  to-night,  as 
he  pores  over  his  books,  the  once  sunny  face  is 
clouded,  and  the  wavy  hair  covers  an  aching  head. 

'  Time  for  bed,  sonny  ! '  says  mother  at  length. 

'  But,  mother,  I  haven't  done  my  home  lessons, 
and  I  can't.' 

1  What  is  it  all  about,  my  boy  ?  '  she  asks,  as 
she  draws  her  chair  nearer  to  his,  and,  putting  her 
arm  round  his  shoulder,  reads  the  tiresome  problem. 

And  then  they  talk  it  over  together.  And,  some- 
how, under  the  magic  of  her  interest,  it  seems  fairly 
simple  after  all.  In  her  sympathetic  voice,  and 
fond  glance,  and  tender  touch,  the  word  becomes 
flesh,  and  he  grasps  its  meaning. 

Five  more  years  pass  away.  He  is  sixteen,  and  a 
perfect  book- worm  Looking  up  from  the  story  he 
is  reading,  he  exclaims  impatiently  : 

'  I  can't  think  why  they  want  to  work  these  silly 
love-stories  into  all  these  books.  A  fellow  can't  pick 


Christmas  Bells  269 

up  a  decent  book  but  there's  a  love-story  running 
through  it.  It's  horrid ! '  He  has  come  upon  the 
greatest  word  in  the  language ;  but  it  has  no  meaning 
for  him  ! 

But  five  years  later  he  understands !  He  has  been 
captivated  by  a  pure  and  radiant  face,  by  a  charm- 
ing and  graceful  form,  by  lovely  eyes  that  answer 
to  his  own.  That  great  word  love  has  been  made 
flesh  to  him,  and  it  simply  gleams  with  meaning. 
And  so,  all  through  the  years,  as  life  goes  on,  he 
finds  the  great  key-words  expounded  to  him  through 
infinite  processes  of  incarnation.  'Ideas,'  says 
George  Eliot,  '  are  often  poor  ghosts  ;  our  sun-filled 
eyes  cannot  discern  them ;  they  pass  athwart  us 
in  their  vapour  and  cannot  make  themselves  felt. 
But  sometimes  they  are  made  flesh ;  they  breathe  upon 
us  with  warm  breath,  they  touch  us  with  soft 
responsive  hand,  they  look  at  us  with  sad  sincere 
eyes,  and  speak  to  us  in  appealing  tones ;  they  are 
clothed  in  a  living  human  soul,  with  all  its  conflicts, 
its  faith,  and  its  love.  Then  their  presence  is  a 
power,  then  they  shake  us  like  a  passion,  and  we  are 
drawn  after  them  with  gentle  compulsion,  as  flame 
is  drawn  to  flame.' 

And  if  this  be  so  with  other  words,  how  could  the 
greatest,  grandest,  holiest  word  of  all  have  been 
expressed  except  in  the  very  selfsame  way  ?  '  The 
Word  was  made  flesh  '  There  was  no  other  way  of 


270  Christmas  Bells 

saying  GOD  intelligibly.  I  should  never,  never, 
never  have  understood  mere  abstract  definitions 
of  so  august  a  term.  And  so — '  In  the  beginning 
was  the  Word,  and  the  Word  was  GOD,  and  the  Word 
was  made  flesh.'  I  can  grasp  that  great  word  now. 
Bethlehem  and  Olivet,  Galilee  and  Calvary,  have 
made  it  wonderfully  plain.  The  word  GOD  would 
have  frightened  me  if  it  had  never  been  expressed 
in  the  terms  of  '  a  Face  like  my  face  ' — as  Browning 
puts  it — and  a  heart  that  beats  hi  sympathy  with 
my  own.  And  so  Tennyson  says  : 

And  so  the  Word  had  breath,  and  wrought 
With  human  hands  the  creed  ol  creeds 
In  loveliness  of  perfect  deeds, 

More  strong  than  all  poetic  thought; 

Which  he  may  read  that  binds  the  sheaf, 
Or  builds  the  house,  or  digs  the  grave, 
And  those  wild  eyes  that  watch  the  wav; 

In  roarings  round  the  coral  reef. 

And  thus  the  most  awful,  the  most  terrible,  and  the 
most  incomprehensible  word  that  human  lips  could 
frame  has  become  the  most  winsome  and  charming 
in  the  whole  vocabulary.  GOD  is  JESUS,  and  JESUS 
is  GOD  !  '  The  Word  was  made  flesh.' 

The  same  principle  dominates  all  religious  experi- 
ence and  enterprise.  Generally  speaking,  you 
cannot  make  a  man  a  Christian  by  giving  him  a 


Christmas  Bells  271 

Bible  or  posting  him  a  tract.  The  Now  Testament 
lays  it  down  quite  clearly  that  the  Christian  man 
must  accompany  the  Christian  message.  The  Word 
must  be  presented  in  its  proper  human  setting. 
Our  missionaries  all  over  the  planet  tell  of  the  resist- 
less influence  exerted  by  gracious  Christian  homes, 
and  by  holy  Christian  lives,  in  winning  idolaters 
from  superstition.  I  was  reading  only  this  morning 
a  touching  instance  of  a  young  Japanese  who  trudged 
hundreds  of  miles  to  inquire  after  the  secret  of  '  the 
beautiful  life  ' — as  he  called  it — which  he  had  seen 
exemplified  in  some  Christian  missionaries.  The 
Word,  made  flesh,  is  thus  pronounced  with  an  accent 
and  an  eloquence  which  are  simply  irresistible. 

'  I  said,  and  I  repeat,'  says  Mr.  Edwin  Hodder, 
in  his  biography  of  Sir  George  Burns,  the  founder  of 
the  Cunard  Steamship  Company,  '  I  said,  and  I 
repeat,  that  if  the  Bible  were  blotted  out  of  existence, 
if  there  were  no  prayer-book,  no  catechism,  and  no 
creed,  if  there  were  no  visible  Church  at  all,  I  could 
not  fail  to  believe  in  the  doctrines  of  Christianity 
while  the  living  epistle  of  Sir  George  Burns'  life 
remained  in  my  memory.'  That  was  Whittier's 
argument : 

The  dear  Lord's  best  interpreters 

Are  humble  human  souls ; 
The  gospel  of  a  life  like  his 

Is  more  than  books  or  scrolls. 


272  Christmas  Bells 

From  scheme  and  creed  the  light  goes  out, 

The  saintly  fact  survives ; 
The  blessed  Master  none  can  doubt, 

Revealed  in  holy  lives. 

We  have  reached  a  very  practical  aspect  now  of 
the  message  that  the  Christmas  bells  will  soon  be 
ringing.  The  thoughts  of  men  are  only  intelligibly 
communicable  by  means  of  words ;  and  the  words  of 
men  only  become  pregnant  with  passion  and  with 
power  when  they  are  made  ftesh.  And,  in  the  same 
way,  the  thoughts  of  God  to  men  are  only  eloquent 
when  they  are  so  expressed.  Revelation  became 
sublimely  rhetorical  at  Bethlehem,  and  we  can  only 
perpetuate  its  eloquence  through  the  agency  of 
lives  transfigured. 


K  men  REQONI  .  MM  nctm 


A    000  071  276    o 


